Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny Read online

  If Doug answers her, I don’t hear it, so I say, “I don’t think I’m loco. But I do hear voices sometimes. Whispers, really.”

  She looks impressed. “Yeah? What do they say?”

  I shrug. “Wish I knew. I get words sometimes now...at least, I think they’re words. Well, of course they’re words, I’m just not sure what language they’re in.”

  Her mouth makes a little ‘o.’

  “So you’re guarding Hismajesty?”

  Now, her mouth twists a little. “Not right now. Right now, I’m talking to a possibly jingbing dude who names trees and hauls them around in little red wagons.”

  She is gazing up over my shoulder, and I turn my head so I can see what she sees. It’s Hismajesty, King of Embarcadero, and he and his float are approaching the Royal balcony.

  This is when I feel another tug at my immortal soul — third one tonight. Only this one isn’t so much a tug as it is a yank — a cold, shivering yank. This is not Doug, of that I am certain. And it’s not Colonel Firescape ‘cause she’s standing right in front of me and this is coming from somewhere else.

  Doug’s branches are waving like crazy all of a sudden, and I know something bad is shakin'. Then, I hear the whisper, “Wiwe,” it says, which is something I don’t know, then, “bu hao,” which I do know.

  “Bu hao,” I repeat.

  “What?” says Colonel Firescape. “What’s no good?”

  Across the courtyard in a window is a shadow. It’s Someone. I don’t know who, but then I look at the window and Doug’s boughs are brushing my hand and I see fire leaping up the wall and taking hold of the balcony where, in two minutes, Hismajesty will be roosting.

  “Don’t let him get on the balcony,” I tell the Colonel. “Don’t let him get anywhere near the balcony. Get him off the float!” I say this very low and earnest, so she won’t think I’m loco.

  “Esta loco?” she says, and her hands tighten on her AK.

  “Fire,” I say, “I see fire. If he gets to the balcony — ”

  “How d’you know? You a merlin or something?”

  “Yeah. Or something.” I’ll say anything, I’m so sure about this.

  She gives me this look, then jumps down off the doorstep, using her AK like a battering ram.

  “Make a hole!” she yells, and I can hear her voice clear as a seagull’s cry over the crowd noise.

  But the place is jam-packed and Hismajesty’s float is moving faster than she is. I get down there with her, hoping Doug and I can help.

  We’re maybe two yards from the float, from which His M is waving and grinning at his subjects, when Firescape gets wild and fires her AK into the air. This makes us a hole.

  We reach the float just as it draws up to the balcony. It’s all adrenaline, I s’pose, but I don’t think I’ve ever leapt as far in a single bound as I did to get up on that float. She made it look easy, like she could fly — sub-machine gun and all. We land amid the flowers (from Kaymart’s glass gardens, I suspect) and grab Hismajesty and drag him off the float.

  When we hit the cobbles, we have to drag him a few feet on this backside so he is not a happy monarch. He fights himself upright, sees that his float has docked without him and roars, “What the hell was that?” and “Who’s this scum?” (Meaning me.)

  We all blink at each other, then Firescape says, “He said — he said there’d be a fire.”

  ”You think so? Maybe he meant someone’d get fired!” snarls the surly sovereign.

  And then his float explodes.

  Well, it doesn’t so much explode as the front of it, which is docked under the balcony, just goes whoosh in this pillar of fire. The fire takes the balcony, the fire escape that leads to it and the throne that sits on it.

  About 10,000 things happen all at once. Fireworks continue to go off and everybody stops whatever they’re doing and finds themselves doing something else they hadn’t even thought of doing two seconds ago: screaming, maybe — mostly the ones with singed eyebrows — oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing, running for cover.

  Hismajesty is struck speechless, which is a condition, I come to know, so unusual as to cause great consternation among those who know him.

  Faster than I can breathe again, we are surrounded by Knighties in red and black and whisked away into a dark corner of the square. Whisking is almost impossible with a 30 pound tree in a wagon, but they do it. And while they are whisking, I get that yanked at feeling in my soul again and look away across the courtyard. And what I see, as though he was the only one out there, is this old Chinese guy — the one who smiled at me. He is like something out of a history video — which is to say, he looks like a lot of old Chinese guys I know. But he’s staring at me across all that dark and fire and all those bobbing heads and, for a second, we are connected and I am sure this is the coldest chun jie I have ever known.

  I am not given any time to contemplate this, however. The Knighties continue to whisk most efficiently, and my view of the OCG is cut off. And a good thing — I was on the verge of mental frost bite. Next thing I know, we are in a dark, close place and the shouting of the crowd is smothered.

  “Palace,” says Hismajesty and before I can steady my heart, Doug and I are standing in the very Throneroom of the very Lord of Embarcadero, gazing up at the ensconced monarch and his very pregnant Lady Queen — Hermajesty to all and sundry — with knocking knees.

  Well, that is, my knees are knocking. Doug, being Tree, doesn’t have knees to knock.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude,” says His M in a voice-o-majesty. “For this eve — according to Firescape — you have saved my life and years of senseless grief and anarchy among your fellow Embarcaderans. What have you to say for yourself, merlin?”

  Merlin. My mind has completely slipped over the fact that I made such a claim. I wonder if I can retract it. I bow. Doug bows a little too, although without aid of a breeze this is hard for him.

  “I’m glad to have been of service,” I say and leave the merlin thing unaddressed. Then I’m tongue-tied.

  There is an awkward silence — or a weighty one, depending on your POV — then Hismajesty asks, “By what strange and wonderful magic did you accomplish this?”

  “It was Doug,” I say and nod toward the Tree.

  All eyes turn to Doug, who waves congenially.

  “The tree? My life has been saved by a magic shrubbery?” asks Hismajesty, and eyeballs me real good. “Who are you?”

  I open my mouth to say I’m just Taco from the Farm and the weirdest stuff comes out. “I am Taco Del — merlin — and this is the Fabled Tree of Destiny, the rustling of whose boughs did save your royal posterior.”

  Now there is an even weightier silence and Hismajesty is looking at me muy strangely and says, “So you talk to the Tree and it...”

  “Talks to me. Not in so many words, ni dong, but the Tree of Destiny makes itself understood to me alone, and what it had me to understand this eve was that your majesty’s float was significantly doomed.”

  “You foresaw the fireball?”

  “Poof,” I say with a flourish, and the next thing I know I am entering the realm of merlinhood and Firescape has been promoted to General for not assuming me to be loco.

  Hismajesty confides in me that he’s been having merlin trouble. His previous merlin has gone AWOL and hasn’t been heard from for weeks. As it turns out, he is at the bottom of the Bay. Had I known this, merlinry would’ve lost much of its appeal.

  “You aren’t really a merlin,” says General Firescape later.

  I am struck almost speechless. “I’m not?” I plan to bluster a little with indignation, but she doesn’t give me a chance.

  “I know what you said, but you didn’t mean it. You just wanted me not to think you were loco. In the Throneroom tonight, you meant it.”

  I am amazed by this, let me tell you. It’s like she reads me.

  “Actually,” I say, before my brain can stop me, “I didn’t know I was a merlin.”

  “I kind of thought
so. But you’re a merlin now.” She gives me this LOOK and I melt. And she asks, “So what happened? I mean, was it just fireworks?”

  Yeah, it was fireworks, all right.

  Oh, the poof, she means. “I don’t know,” I say, then, hopping on a memory, “No. It wasn’t just fireworks. There was gasoline in the grate under the balcony. I smelled it.”

  She nods. “Lord E.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “Who planned the poof. It was Lord E...wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I s’pose it could’ve been.”

  For some reason I resist telling her about the creepy old Chinese guy. He might’ve had nothing to do with this. Then again, I got this feeling he had everything to do with this. I wonder if he connects to Lord E somehow.

  “Does Lord E do stuff like this often?” I ask.

  “No. He’d sure like to get rid of Hismajesty, though. That’s solid.” She looks a little suspicious at me. “Can’t you tell? If it was Lord E, I mean.”

  “Merlinry,” I tell her, as serioso as I can, “is not an exact science.”

  I do not tell her that, despite her conviction, I am not exactly a merlin, but just a dude lucky enough to dig up a very talented Tree.

  When I tell Bags and Kaymart what has happened to me and Doug, they are awfully proud. I tell them it was Doug, not me, but Bags winks and says it’s both Doug and me.

  “It takes two,” he says. “A merlin and his channel. You got it made, Del. You been called.”

  They help me move my stuff into the Regency Palace where I would now live. Then they take me to a fanguan to celebrate with some hot and fishy noodles.

  Called. I think about it that night while I lay in my new bed, holding Doug’s bough for comfort against the strangeness of sleeping twenty stories high in a building that shivers when the wind hits it.

  “Doug,” I ask him, “why’d you make me say all that stuff about being a merlin?”

  He doesn’t answer me, but I think I hear him laugh.

  Fifth:

  There Is More Going Down Than I Think

  Firescape’s reconsidering of the move doesn’t impress Hismajesty. He is determined to follow Scrawl’s advice and bug out. I can tell she’s been chewin on his ear. Giving her best ooga-booga doom talk.

  I bring up the bird beak and driftwood and Scrawl is quick to announce that it’s a portent. The Alcaldé will attempt to seize our queen by way of the Sea. Since the Regency Palace is practically on top of the Sea, that goes down like the Titanic. I note that Her M has nothing in common with driftwood, but no one hears me. The royal family is packed up and spirited away (belongings and household to follow) until such time as Firescape and the other Generals can put a stop to the threat.

  Firescape, herself, is assigned to Hermajesty’s personal guard. Net result, I will be separated from her until I can pack up my workshop and all my magic crap and make the move.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I quote as we say polite goodbyes in the plaza before the Palace.

  “Me too,” she admits. “I should stay and guard you and the Tree. Cinderblock could handle the Royal Family.”

  “No, I understand. Hismajesty wants the best. That’s you, General Firescape.”

  I smile and give her a tiny bottle of attar.

  Her eyes get big. “What is it, a potion?”

  I blush. “Attar of Fir. Smell it.”

  She does. “It smells just like the Tree!”

  I can tell she’s pleased.

  “He helped me make it. It’s from his needles.”

  She smiles and puts some on her neck, then tilts her head to one side. “Does it smell good on me, d’you think?”

  I read this as an invitation to get close, so I do. Close enough to feel warmth coming off her skin.

  “Smells great, General.”

  “Jade,” she murmurs, tilting her head so she’s looking right into my eyes. “Jade Berengaria.”

  “What?” I say, not daring to hope the potion is really working, and so soon.

  “My real and secret names. Jade from my father; Berengaria from my mother. It means Spear Maiden. She picked it out at the Wiz. She wanted me to have a career in the Service — like her. She’s with the Border Guard, southeast.” She smiles, then gives me a kiss on the cheek. “See ya, Del.”

  I hold my cheek and marvel. She has given me her real and secret names. Jade Berengaria. I roll the syllables in my head, let them fall from my tongue in a whisper. A precious jewel and a warrior maid. Perfect. Number one jade. I am boggled solemn with the significance of this: in two words, Firescape (Jade Berengaria Firescape) has given me the key to her very soul.

  oOo

  Late that night, an explosion rocks the neighborhood. It’s an old boatshed down on the Wharf that burns. A BIG boatshed. Lights up the waterfront for miles. When I reach the Wharf, a crowd has already gathered. I spy Creepy Lou standing there in the bright haze, scratching his head.

  “You see it?” I ask.

  “Just about. Looky-dooky.” He points at the pavement at his feet. In the wriggling light, the colors seem to move.

  I squat. Effigy. And still wet. Hismajesty, by the painted crown, I think. And next to that, a cubist-looking Ampam struts off with-

  “Lordy-lordy,” says Creepy Lou. “Voo-doo.”

  “Naw. Scare tactics.”

  Same style as the mural. I stand and look about the street. Kids are trying to get close enough to toast hoarded marshmallows and sausages from the knacker’s up on Mason. Other folks have brought buckets and stuff to carry away the leftover coals.

  “Anybody see who did this?” I ask.

  “Not much traffic along here.”

  Creepy Lou unrolls his favorite blue hat and crams it over his head. Tufts of bleached yellow stick out around his ears like straw. He reminds me of the Scarecrow in the Oz books.

  He grins at me. “If I only had a brain.”

  I hate it when he does that. “You see anybody?”

  “Shure. Thaw a bunch of kids and a clown I know from the Gee Gah. But he lives here.”

  There is a big, hot whoosh as the roof of the shed falls in. The marshmallow roasters and coal collectors cheer and jostle.

  “Huh,” says Lou. “Used to live here.”

  I am appalled. “He wasn’t in there, was he?”

  Creepy Lou shakes his head and I imagine I see a spider rappelling down his gaunt cheek.

  “Naw. Look.”

  I follow his scarecrow point to where a dejected looking clown wilts in the heat. I sidle over and Lou follows.

  “S’cuse me,” I say. “This your place?”

  The clown eyes me, realizes who and what I am and clutches my sleeve.

  “Oh, please, great merlin! Please make the fire un-eat my digs!”

  The Fireknighties have arrived now in a blast of sirens and air horns. The front wall collapses as they reel out, making the marshmallow crowd scatter.

  I tell the clown that I regret his loss. Can’t do nothing for his old digs, but I for sure can get him new. I ask how he’d like to live in the Regency Palace for a while. Then, while he is kissing the hem of my sleeve, I ask if he saw how the fire started.

  He shakes his purple frowze, tears trickling away his whiteface.

  “Just got home. Just opening the door when something hits me — bonk — on the pate. It’s a fish head. Geez, I think, who’d throw fish heads at a clown? I’m pissed, see, so I head back across the pier to see who did the throwing. I get out there-“ — he points to the half-burnt planks that lead from the pavement to the big, smoking cinder — “-and I hear this popple-popple-popple! Then roar-whoosh! No more house.”

  “Anybody about?”

  He shrugs, his lips tremble. “Nobody that shouldn’a been.”

  “You see the fish head tosser?”

  “Just his butt for a flash.” He shrugs again. “Big butt, red happy-coat. Dime a billion around here.”

  The clown is right. Among the resi
dents of Embarcadero a red happy-coat is like brown eyes and black hair; everybody and his aunt Whoopee got ‘em. Hell, I got two.

  “Poor dumb shit,” says Creepy Lou when I have sent the clown over to the Palace with a note for the steward. Then he grins. “Gonna make old Scrawl see reddy-red-red.”

  “How so?”

  “Hates clowns. Thays they give her creepy-crawlers. I thay she oughta check out the mirror.” He shivers enthusiastically. “Ooga-booga! Hates this clown most special ‘cause he dumped her ath!” He wheezes laughter. “Now he’s gonna be livin' with her!”

  Lou goes off cackling while I wait for the Firebrigade to wrap things. I see Cinderblock about, playing detective. I go over to ask if she’s got anything. She does, but not much.

  “Cheap fireworks from Wang’s Novelty on Du Pon Gai,” she says, holding up a wrinkled scrap of paper. Her nose is wrinkled, too. “Cheap fireworks and ethanol. Nasty combo.”

  “Arson.”

  “Count on it. Question is, why and who?” She squints at the major pile of charcoal. “I got my suspicions. Good thing we moved Hermajesty, huh?”

  “Yeah. Looks that way.”

  I am holding a hunk of crispy-fried wood, about to chuck it into my belt pouch, when suddenly, I feel like one of Creepy Lou’s spiders is crawling down my back.

  “S'cuse me. I gotta talk to a clown.”

  The Palace is empty without the majesties and their close, personal servants. It feels strange, creepy. The left-behind knighties are just straggling back in from the fire, their red and black jackets and spandies sooty. The smell of smoke follows them in.

  I talk to the clown, whose name is Winky, but he can’t tell me anything more. Red happy-coat, he says and mumbles that somebody’s trying to kill him.

  “Woulda been in there, ‘cept for that fish head. Saved my life. S’miracle.”

  I’m not so sure.

  Upstairs, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong — that I am missing something. From my balcony I can see the glow of the ex-boatshed. The marshmallow people have moved in real close, stuff bobbing at the ends of their sticks. The coal collectors work around them.