The walk home from the bus stop was weary and quiet. Three
blocks from Nita’s house, they reached the corner where their
ways usually parted. Kit paused there, waiting for the light to
change, though no traffic was in sight. “Call me
tomorrow?” he said. What for? Nita felt like saying, for there were no more spells
in the offing, and she was deadly tired.
Still— . . . “It’s your
turn,” she said.
“Huh. Right,” The light changed, and Kit headed
across the street to Nita’s left. In the middle of the street
he turned, walking backward. “We should call Tom and
Carl,” he shouted, sounding entirely exhausted.
“Yeah.” The light changed again, in Nita’s
favor; Kit jumped up onto the sidewalk on the other side and headed
south toward his place. Nita crossed east, watching Kit as she
went. Though the look on his face was tired and sad, all the rest
of his body wore the posture of someone who’s been through so
much fear that fear no longer frightens him. Why’s he so
afraid of getting beat up? Nita thought. Nobody in their right mind
would mess with him.
In midstep she stopped, watching him walk away. How about that.
How ’bout that. He got what he asked for.
After a second she started walking home again. The weight at her
back suddenly reminded her of something. (Kit!) she called
silently, knowing he could hear even though he was now out of
sight. (What about the Book?)
(Hang on to it,) he answered. (We’ll give it to the
Advisories. Or they’ll know what to do with it.)
(Right. See ya later.)
(See ya.)
Nita was so tired that it took three or four minutes before the
identity of blond person walking up East Clinton toward her
registered at all. By then Joanne was within yelling distance, but she
didn’t yell at Nita at all, much to Nita’s surprise.
This was such an odd development that Nita looked at Joanne
carefully as they got closer, something she had never done before
There was something familiar about Joanne today, a look that Nita
couldn’t quite pin down—and then she recognized the
expression and let out a tired unhappy breath. The look was less
marked, less violent and terrible than that of the
pride-frozen misery of the dark rider, but there all the
same. The angry fear was there too—the terror of what had
been until now no threat but was now out of control; the look of
the rider about to be cast out by a power he had thought himself
safe from, the look of a bully whose victim suddenly wasn’t a
victim any more.
Nita slowed down and stopped where she was, in the middle of the
sidewalk, watching Joanne. Even he can be different now, she
thought, her heart beating fast—her own old fear wasn’t
entirely gone. But that was partly because we gave him the
chance.
She stood there, watching Joanne slow down warily as she got
closer to Nita. Nita sweated. Doing something that would be laughed
about behind her back was almost as bad as being beaten up. But she
stood still until Joanne came to a stop four or five feet away from
her. “Well?” Joanne said, her voice full of anger and
uncertainty. I don’t know what to say to her, we have absolutely
nothing in common, Nita thought frantically. But it has to start
somewhere. She swallowed and did her best to look Joanne in the
eye, calmly and not in threat. “Come on over to my place
after supper sometime and look through my telescope,” she
said. “I’ll show you Jupiter’s moons. Or
Mars—”
Joanne made that old familiar haughty face and brushed past Nita
and away. “Why would I ever want to go to your house? You
don’t even have a color TV.”
Nita stood still, listening to Joanne’s footsteps hurrying
away, a little faster every second—and slowly began to
realize that she’d gotten what she asked for too—the
ability to break the cycle of anger and loneliness, not necessarily
for others, but at least for herself. It wouldn’t even take
the Speech; plain words would do it, and the magic of reaching out,
It would take a long time, much longer than something simple like
breaking the walls between the worlds, and it would cost more
effort than even the reading of the Book of Night with Moon. But it
would be worth it—and eventually it would work. A spell
always works.
Nita went home.
That night after supper she slipped outside to sit in
Liused’s shadow and watch the sky. The tree caught her moon
and, after greeting her, was quiet—until about ten
o’clock, when it and every other growing thing in sign
suddenly trembled violently as if stricken at the root. They had
felt the Sun go out.
(It’s all right,) she said silently, though for someone
whose tears were starting again, it was an odd thing to say. She
waited the eight minutes with them, saw the Moon blink out, and
leaned back against the rowan trunk, sheltering from the wind that
rose in the darkness. Branches tossed as if in a hurricane, leaves
hissed in anguish—and then the sudden new star in the heavens
etched every leaf’s shadow sharp against the ground and set
the Moon on fire. Nita squinted up at the pinpoint of brilliance,
unwilling to look away though her eyes leaked tears of pain.
She’d thought, that afternoon, that living through the loss a
second time would be easier. She was wrong. The tears kept falling
long after the star went out, and the Moon found its light again,
and the wind died to a whisper. She stopped crying long enough to
go back inside and go to bed, and she was sure she would start
again immediately. But she was wrong about that too. Exhaustion
beat down grief so fast that she was asleep almost as soon as her
head touched the pillow under which she had hidden the Book of
Night with Moon . . .
The place where they stood was impossible, for there’s no
place in Manhattan where the water level in the East River
comes right up to the railed path that runs alongside it. There
they stood, though, leaning with their backs against the railing,
gazing up at the bright city that reared against the silver sky,
while behind them the river whispered and chuckled and slapped its
banks. The sound of laughter came down the morning wind from the
apartments and the brownstones and the towers of steel and crystal;
the seabirds wheeled and cried over the white piers and jetties of
the Manhattan shoreline, and from somewhere down the riverside came
the faint sound of music—quiet rock, a deep steady backbeat
woven about with guitars and voices in close harmony. A jogger went
by on the running path, puffing, followed by a large black and
white dog galloping to catch up with its master. Are we early, or are they late? Kit asked, leaning back farther
still to watch an overflying Learjet do barrel-roll after
barrel-roll for sheer joy of being alive. Who cares? Nita said, leaning back too and enjoying the way the
music and the city sounds and the Learjet’s delighted scream
all blended. Anyway, this is Timeheart. There’s nothing
here but Now . . .
They turned their backs on the towers and the traffic and the
laughter, and out across the shining water toward Brooklyn and Long
Island. Neither was there just then—probably someone else
in Timeheart was using them, and Kit and Nita didn’t need them at
the moment. The silver expanse of the Atlantic shifted and glittered
from their feet to the radiant horizon,. Far off to their right,
south and west of the Battery, the Statue of Liberty held up her
torch and her tablet and looked calmly out toward the sunrise as
they did, waiting. Nita was the first to see the dark bulge out on
the water, She nudged Kit and pointed. Look, a shark!
He glanced at her, amused. Even here I don’t think sharks
have wheels . . .
The Lotus came fast, hydroplaning. Water spat up from its wheels
as it skidded up to the railing and fishtailed sideways, grinning,
spraying them both. On its wildly waving antenna rode a spark of
light. Nita smiled at her friend, who danced off the antenna to
rest momentarily on one of her fingers like a hundred-watt
firefly. Well, Nita said, is it confusing being dead?
Fred chuckled a rainbow, up the spectrum and down again. Not
very. Beside him, the Lotus stood up on its hind wheels, putting
its front ones on the railing so that Kit could scratch it behind
the headlights. We brought it, Kit said. Good, said the Lotus, as Nita got the bright Book out of her
backpack and handed it to Kit. The Powers want to put it away safe.
Though the precaution may not really be necessary, after what you
did. It worked? He’s changed? Nita said.
Fred made a spatter of light, a gesture that felt like the shake
of a head. Not changed, just made otherwise, as if he’d been
that way from the beginning. He has back the option he’d decided was lost—to put aside his anger, to build
instead of damn . . . Then if he uses that option—you mean every place could be
like this some day? Kit looked over his shoulder at the city and
all the existence behind it, preserved in its fullest beauty while
still growing and becoming greater. Possibly. What he did remains. Entropy’s still here, and
death. They look like waste and horror to us now. But if he chooses
to have them be a blessing on the worlds, instead of anger’s
curse—who knows where those gates will lead
then? . . . The Lotus sounded pleased by the
prospect.
Kit held out the Book of Night with Moon. Most delicately the
Lotus opened fanged jaws to take it, then rubbed its face against
Kit and dropped to all four wheels on the water. It smiled at them
both, a chrome smile, silver and sanguine—then backed a
little, turned and was off, spraying Kit and Nita again.
Fred started to follow, but Nita caught him in cupped hands,
holding him back for a moment. Fred! Did we do right?
Even here she couldn’t keep the pain out of her question,
the fear that she could somehow have prevented his death. But Fred
radiated a serene and wondering joy that took her breath and
reassured her and filled her with wonder to match his, all at once.
Go find out, he said.
She opened her hands and he flew out of them like a spark blown
on the wind—a brightness zipping after the Lotus, losing
itself against the silver of the sea, gone. Nita turned around to
lean on the railing again, after a moment Kit turned with her. They
breathed out, relaxing, and settled back to gaze at the city
transfigured, the city preserved at the heart of Time, as all
things loved are preserved in the hearts that care for
them—gazed up into the radiance, the life, the light
unending, the light . . .
. . . the light was right in her eyes,
mostly because Dairine had yanked the curtain open. Her sister was
talking loudly, and Nita turned her head and quite suddenly felt
what was not under her pillow. “You gonna sleep all morning?
Get up, it’s ten thirty! The Sun went out last night, you
should see it it was on the news. And somebody blew up Central
Park; and Kit Rodriguez called, he wants you to call him back. How
come you keep calling each other, anyhow?” Halfway out the
bedroom door, realization dawned in her sister’s eyes.
“Maaaaa!” she yelled out the door, strangling on her
own laughter. “Nita’s got a
boyfriend.’”
“Oh, jeez, Dairiiiiime!”
The wizard threw her pillow at her sister, got up, and went to
breakfast.
The walk home from the bus stop was weary and quiet. Three
blocks from Nita’s house, they reached the corner where their
ways usually parted. Kit paused there, waiting for the light to
change, though no traffic was in sight. “Call me
tomorrow?” he said. What for? Nita felt like saying, for there were no more spells
in the offing, and she was deadly tired.
Still— . . . “It’s your
turn,” she said.
“Huh. Right,” The light changed, and Kit headed
across the street to Nita’s left. In the middle of the street
he turned, walking backward. “We should call Tom and
Carl,” he shouted, sounding entirely exhausted.
“Yeah.” The light changed again, in Nita’s
favor; Kit jumped up onto the sidewalk on the other side and headed
south toward his place. Nita crossed east, watching Kit as she
went. Though the look on his face was tired and sad, all the rest
of his body wore the posture of someone who’s been through so
much fear that fear no longer frightens him. Why’s he so
afraid of getting beat up? Nita thought. Nobody in their right mind
would mess with him.
In midstep she stopped, watching him walk away. How about that.
How ’bout that. He got what he asked for.
After a second she started walking home again. The weight at her
back suddenly reminded her of something. (Kit!) she called
silently, knowing he could hear even though he was now out of
sight. (What about the Book?)
(Hang on to it,) he answered. (We’ll give it to the
Advisories. Or they’ll know what to do with it.)
(Right. See ya later.)
(See ya.)
Nita was so tired that it took three or four minutes before the
identity of blond person walking up East Clinton toward her
registered at all. By then Joanne was within yelling distance, but she
didn’t yell at Nita at all, much to Nita’s surprise.
This was such an odd development that Nita looked at Joanne
carefully as they got closer, something she had never done before
There was something familiar about Joanne today, a look that Nita
couldn’t quite pin down—and then she recognized the
expression and let out a tired unhappy breath. The look was less
marked, less violent and terrible than that of the
pride-frozen misery of the dark rider, but there all the
same. The angry fear was there too—the terror of what had
been until now no threat but was now out of control; the look of
the rider about to be cast out by a power he had thought himself
safe from, the look of a bully whose victim suddenly wasn’t a
victim any more.
Nita slowed down and stopped where she was, in the middle of the
sidewalk, watching Joanne. Even he can be different now, she
thought, her heart beating fast—her own old fear wasn’t
entirely gone. But that was partly because we gave him the
chance.
She stood there, watching Joanne slow down warily as she got
closer to Nita. Nita sweated. Doing something that would be laughed
about behind her back was almost as bad as being beaten up. But she
stood still until Joanne came to a stop four or five feet away from
her. “Well?” Joanne said, her voice full of anger and
uncertainty. I don’t know what to say to her, we have absolutely
nothing in common, Nita thought frantically. But it has to start
somewhere. She swallowed and did her best to look Joanne in the
eye, calmly and not in threat. “Come on over to my place
after supper sometime and look through my telescope,” she
said. “I’ll show you Jupiter’s moons. Or
Mars—”
Joanne made that old familiar haughty face and brushed past Nita
and away. “Why would I ever want to go to your house? You
don’t even have a color TV.”
Nita stood still, listening to Joanne’s footsteps hurrying
away, a little faster every second—and slowly began to
realize that she’d gotten what she asked for too—the
ability to break the cycle of anger and loneliness, not necessarily
for others, but at least for herself. It wouldn’t even take
the Speech; plain words would do it, and the magic of reaching out,
It would take a long time, much longer than something simple like
breaking the walls between the worlds, and it would cost more
effort than even the reading of the Book of Night with Moon. But it
would be worth it—and eventually it would work. A spell
always works.
Nita went home.
That night after supper she slipped outside to sit in
Liused’s shadow and watch the sky. The tree caught her moon
and, after greeting her, was quiet—until about ten
o’clock, when it and every other growing thing in sign
suddenly trembled violently as if stricken at the root. They had
felt the Sun go out.
(It’s all right,) she said silently, though for someone
whose tears were starting again, it was an odd thing to say. She
waited the eight minutes with them, saw the Moon blink out, and
leaned back against the rowan trunk, sheltering from the wind that
rose in the darkness. Branches tossed as if in a hurricane, leaves
hissed in anguish—and then the sudden new star in the heavens
etched every leaf’s shadow sharp against the ground and set
the Moon on fire. Nita squinted up at the pinpoint of brilliance,
unwilling to look away though her eyes leaked tears of pain.
She’d thought, that afternoon, that living through the loss a
second time would be easier. She was wrong. The tears kept falling
long after the star went out, and the Moon found its light again,
and the wind died to a whisper. She stopped crying long enough to
go back inside and go to bed, and she was sure she would start
again immediately. But she was wrong about that too. Exhaustion
beat down grief so fast that she was asleep almost as soon as her
head touched the pillow under which she had hidden the Book of
Night with Moon . . .
The place where they stood was impossible, for there’s no
place in Manhattan where the water level in the East River
comes right up to the railed path that runs alongside it. There
they stood, though, leaning with their backs against the railing,
gazing up at the bright city that reared against the silver sky,
while behind them the river whispered and chuckled and slapped its
banks. The sound of laughter came down the morning wind from the
apartments and the brownstones and the towers of steel and crystal;
the seabirds wheeled and cried over the white piers and jetties of
the Manhattan shoreline, and from somewhere down the riverside came
the faint sound of music—quiet rock, a deep steady backbeat
woven about with guitars and voices in close harmony. A jogger went
by on the running path, puffing, followed by a large black and
white dog galloping to catch up with its master. Are we early, or are they late? Kit asked, leaning back farther
still to watch an overflying Learjet do barrel-roll after
barrel-roll for sheer joy of being alive. Who cares? Nita said, leaning back too and enjoying the way the
music and the city sounds and the Learjet’s delighted scream
all blended. Anyway, this is Timeheart. There’s nothing
here but Now . . .
They turned their backs on the towers and the traffic and the
laughter, and out across the shining water toward Brooklyn and Long
Island. Neither was there just then—probably someone else
in Timeheart was using them, and Kit and Nita didn’t need them at
the moment. The silver expanse of the Atlantic shifted and glittered
from their feet to the radiant horizon,. Far off to their right,
south and west of the Battery, the Statue of Liberty held up her
torch and her tablet and looked calmly out toward the sunrise as
they did, waiting. Nita was the first to see the dark bulge out on
the water, She nudged Kit and pointed. Look, a shark!
He glanced at her, amused. Even here I don’t think sharks
have wheels . . .
The Lotus came fast, hydroplaning. Water spat up from its wheels
as it skidded up to the railing and fishtailed sideways, grinning,
spraying them both. On its wildly waving antenna rode a spark of
light. Nita smiled at her friend, who danced off the antenna to
rest momentarily on one of her fingers like a hundred-watt
firefly. Well, Nita said, is it confusing being dead?
Fred chuckled a rainbow, up the spectrum and down again. Not
very. Beside him, the Lotus stood up on its hind wheels, putting
its front ones on the railing so that Kit could scratch it behind
the headlights. We brought it, Kit said. Good, said the Lotus, as Nita got the bright Book out of her
backpack and handed it to Kit. The Powers want to put it away safe.
Though the precaution may not really be necessary, after what you
did. It worked? He’s changed? Nita said.
Fred made a spatter of light, a gesture that felt like the shake
of a head. Not changed, just made otherwise, as if he’d been
that way from the beginning. He has back the option he’d decided was lost—to put aside his anger, to build
instead of damn . . . Then if he uses that option—you mean every place could be
like this some day? Kit looked over his shoulder at the city and
all the existence behind it, preserved in its fullest beauty while
still growing and becoming greater. Possibly. What he did remains. Entropy’s still here, and
death. They look like waste and horror to us now. But if he chooses
to have them be a blessing on the worlds, instead of anger’s
curse—who knows where those gates will lead
then? . . . The Lotus sounded pleased by the
prospect.
Kit held out the Book of Night with Moon. Most delicately the
Lotus opened fanged jaws to take it, then rubbed its face against
Kit and dropped to all four wheels on the water. It smiled at them
both, a chrome smile, silver and sanguine—then backed a
little, turned and was off, spraying Kit and Nita again.
Fred started to follow, but Nita caught him in cupped hands,
holding him back for a moment. Fred! Did we do right?
Even here she couldn’t keep the pain out of her question,
the fear that she could somehow have prevented his death. But Fred
radiated a serene and wondering joy that took her breath and
reassured her and filled her with wonder to match his, all at once.
Go find out, he said.
She opened her hands and he flew out of them like a spark blown
on the wind—a brightness zipping after the Lotus, losing
itself against the silver of the sea, gone. Nita turned around to
lean on the railing again, after a moment Kit turned with her. They
breathed out, relaxing, and settled back to gaze at the city
transfigured, the city preserved at the heart of Time, as all
things loved are preserved in the hearts that care for
them—gazed up into the radiance, the life, the light
unending, the light . . .
. . . the light was right in her eyes,
mostly because Dairine had yanked the curtain open. Her sister was
talking loudly, and Nita turned her head and quite suddenly felt
what was not under her pillow. “You gonna sleep all morning?
Get up, it’s ten thirty! The Sun went out last night, you
should see it it was on the news. And somebody blew up Central
Park; and Kit Rodriguez called, he wants you to call him back. How
come you keep calling each other, anyhow?” Halfway out the
bedroom door, realization dawned in her sister’s eyes.
“Maaaaa!” she yelled out the door, strangling on her
own laughter. “Nita’s got a
boyfriend.’”
“Oh, jeez, Dairiiiiime!”
The wizard threw her pillow at her sister, got up, and went to
breakfast.