Black comes back. Drops the dumbbells in the corner, stares at Blind’s purple spots in wonderment, and goes off to the showers. There’s no one to tell him about Gaby and the new Law, because Lary trotted off to inform Logs and I am not yet ready. I have to sort out everything. After that—oh, how they’re all going to wish I’d shut up, but until then I’m as silent as a grave.
Blind is still slumped on the floor, chin between his knees. Humpback trains Nanette to attack intruders. Alexander strips the linens off Lary’s bed and shakes out the blanket and duvet. Nothing much going on, in short. I decide to go down to the yard, where my thoughts will have more space to roam. I might even get sad there for a bit, regarding various sad circumstances. I haven’t been getting sad properly for a long time about anything, apart from Noble, that is, and haven’t gone to the yard alone either. I grab my coat and ride. Alexander stops torturing the duvet and goes to see me off.
I’m alone in the yard. I like being out alone, everyone knows that. There’s no rain, but the weather is cold and kind of raw. The big puddle, where the water is clear in the middle and murky at the edges, is reflecting my head. It’s black and unkempt. I resemble a porcupine. I stare at it. Then it gets boring. I throw a small stone into the puddle. Then another one.
The clouds are running out of room in the sky and start jostling one another. I pick up another stone. This one is an unusual color. Seems to be white. At least, that’s how it looks in the dark, but there’s no way to tell for sure. I pocket it, to have a closer look later. Rustle of rain; the first drops slide down my nose. I throw back my head, opening my mouth. Heavenly tears cover my face but my mouth doesn’t feel anything. The rain’s still too thin.
Alexander’s outline in the window. He looks down and waves. Wants to know if I need to go up yet. I wave back and sway from side to side.
That’s my answer. The rain doesn’t bother me. I’d even like it to become stronger.
Alexander disappears. He’ll come and pick me up before dinner, plenty of time for me to change clothes then. For now I’m content.
I think back to that one time I was sitting here. It was raining then as well, and harder too. The steps were shiny black, and water was running down the wheelchair ramp in rivulets. I was thinking about something. Or maybe dozing off. Can’t tell for certain. Rain, sun, wind; they all impart strength. So I sat and waited for it to soak into me to the last drop, to the point of translucency. Once sated, I decided to go back. I didn’t go up right away, but took a ride along the first floor instead.
And right there, in the hallway, there they were. Standing side by side. This fat fire-breathing woman, a regular human volcano. Red coat, black hat. Crocodile leather bag. Lips like an open wound. Cheeks like slices of bologna. Teardrop earrings. There was a puddle at her feet, from all the water that had dripped down, she was shuffling in it and stewing silently. And the man next to her. Pale and pasty like a mealworm. A snout for a nose, lips pursed. Tortoiseshell glasses. Pity the tortoise! Pity the crocodile! I wouldn’t want to be in their place.
Also they had a snit of a girl, about fourteen. Gangly, blondish, red albino eyes. Also in a red coat. And a boy of about ten. Spitting image of his father. Clearly the pet of the family. Piggy eyes, snout nose, lips coming to a point—all there. Coat—red-and-gray check. Obviously. The entire brood was flashing way too much red.
And a little apart from them, leaning against the wall, stood Scarlet Dragon. The only really red one in the whole gang. Red is a tricky color. Deceitful. You can wear it and put it on your face all you want, and only become even grayer. It is the color of conjurers, clowns, and killers. I like it, but not always and not everywhere.
I am Tabaqui, dispenser of nicks at first sight. Godfather for scores upon scores. In every incarnation the master of tales, the royal fool, and the keeper of Time. And I can always tell a dragon from a person. Dragons are not evil. Just different. If I saw him alone first, not surrounded by his family, I might not have spotted him right away. But this was easy.
He was thin and covered in freckles. Old battered jacket, patched-up homemade sweater, jeans fraying at the knees. His eyes contained a whole different world in them. An entire abandoned planet. Long, slender fingers gnawed raw.
I looked at the hands of the others. Short, stubby sausages. Rings biting into the flesh. Big hands, small hands, all of them the same. He was of another blood. Different hands, different eyes, different body. He also was the only one wearing old clothes, so old that they were now as familiar with him as he was with them, enveloping and caressing him.
I smiled. I can’t remember the last time I liked someone that much from just one look. He tried to return the smile. Imperceptibly, with just a corner of his mouth.
