There was a joining of sleep and waking, of past and present, that could not be completely sorted out. Yet his mission in coming here, in finding the gypsy morph, transcended the confusion and misgivings and fears to which such a joining gave birth. What he would do here might change the destiny of the human race. His belief in that possibility demanded that he put aside everything else, everything personal, until he had done what he had been sent to do.
Inside his head, the ghosts chattered and laughed like small animals, and the steel of his determination shivered.
He proceeded through the doorway into the near blackness of a small entry, found the stairway beyond, and began to climb. He went slowly and silently, not wanting to alert the street kids to his presence, not wanting them to have a reason to bolt and scatter. It wasn't that he was afraid of losing the morph.
But tracking down the morph, if it fled, would consume time he was not sure he had. Other forces were at work, and sooner or later he would come up against them. He did not want that to happen before his quest was complete.
He found the street kids on the night–shrouded fourth floor, barricaded behind a heavy iron–sheeted door. By then, they had gone quiet, alerted to his presence. Perhaps they had heard him approach. Perhaps they had simply sensed him. They possessed preternatural instincts or they would not still be alive. He looked up and down the hallway through the gloom for clues and found none. He looked again at the door. He could hear them breathing, right on the other side of the barrier. Interestingly, they had not fled. That meant they were prepared for intruders and not afraid. He would have to be careful.
"My name is Logan Tom," he said to the door. "Can one of you talk to me?"
No answer. He waited awhile longer, and then said, "I am not here to harm you. I am looking for someone. I have come a long way to find this person. I think you can help me do that."
Still no answer. But there was a faint stirring, a whispering that was almost inaudible, and the sound of a very big animal's low growl.
"Are you from one of the compounds?" a voice asked. It was an older girl or a young woman, her voice steady and confident. He took a chance. "No, I'm not from the compounds. I serve a higher order. I am a Knight of the Word."
More whispering, including someone's inadvertently sharp query, "What's that?"
"Do you have any weapons?" the first speaker asked. He had left everything in the Lightning, which was parked and secured on the main north–south highway, perhaps a mile east. "I am unarmed," he said.
"What about your staff?"
So they could see him. Even in the near blackness. He showed no reaction, deliberately not looking for the peephole through which they were viewing him.
"It is a symbol of my order. It is not a weapon." A white lie, because it could be a weapon, of course, even though he would never use it against them. He waited, but no one spoke. He started to ask them if he could come inside, but stopped himself. It would be better to let them make that decision without any pressure from him.
"Tell us who you are looking for," the speaker said. "I'm not sure. I have never met this person. I have something that will tell me who it is. A talisman.
That is what led me here to you. It tells me that the person I am looking for is inside." "Can you describe who it is?"
He shook his head, and then said, "No. The talisman will point the person out to me. If you will give me a chance to use it."
Further muttering, longer and more intense this time. An argument was taking place, but it was difficult to tell its nature. He tried to think what else he could tell them that would make them open the door.
"We don't know whether to believe you or not, but it doesn't matter. We don't let anyone inside but members of our own tribe. The older girl's voice was firm. "One of us might agree to come out, but you will have to convince us that it's a good idea."
Logan nodded, mostly to himself. "What can I tell you that will help?"
"Tell us everything. Tell us how you came by your talisman. Tell us how you knew what it would do. Tell us why any of this matters." A pause. "We will know if you are telling us the truth, so don't lie. We will also know if you mean us any harm."
He thought about it a moment. Was there anything he couldn't tell them? He scanned it through in his mind, then decided there wasn't. What difference did it make what they knew about his purpose in coming here? What mattered was that they let him inside so that he could throw the finger bones and discover whether the gypsy morph was there or not.
"All right," he agreed.
He told it all to them. Of his mission as a Knight of the Word, of his meeting with Two Bears, of the origins of the gypsy morph, of his search to find it, of his journey west and his arrival here, in the city. It took him awhile, but he didn't rush it. There were no interruptions from the other side of the door. There was only silence.
But when he was finished, a new voice spoke out instantly, a little girl's
voice. "It is the vision, Owl! Hawk's vision!"
"Your story, Owl!" another voice said, this one male, young. "Of the boy and his children!"
There were hurried whispers and urgent warnings of "hush" and "be quiet" — five or six voices, at least, all speaking at once. Logan thought he heard the name Candle, as well, but he couldn't be certain. He waited for the muttering to die down, trying to stay patient.
Finally, the older girl said, "I don't know, Logan Tom."
Another voice, darker sounding, older, too, said, "Frickin' bunch of bull! I don't believe any of it!"
Everyone began talking at once, but he could tell that they were all kids, none of them, save perhaps the girl who had spoken first, old enough to be called a grown–up. Any attempt at keeping their numbers hidden had been forgotten, and all the talk now was about whether or not he was to be believed.
Then the little girl‑Candle, he guessed–shouted at them suddenly. "Open the door! He is here to help us. He is not here to hurt us. I would know. We have to let him in and see what his talisman tells us!"
The argument resumed for a moment, and then one of them — the older girl, perhaps–hushed the others into silence.
"Will you put down your staff, Logan Tom? Will you turn around and face away from us so that we can make certain that you mean us no harm? Will you do that? Will you stand there and let us make sure of you?"
It was something that he had never thought he would agree even to consider. His instincts were all directed toward protecting himself–to never give up his staff or put himself at the mercy of another or trust the word of someone he didn't know. He almost said no. He almost decided that enough was enough and he would just go in there and get this over with. But he calmed himself by remembering that with kids you needed to earn their trust. These kids were just trying to stay alive, and they didn't have anyone to help them do that. They were on their own, and they had learned early on that they could only rely on themselves.
He turned around so that he was facing away from the door, laid his staff on the floor, spread his arms out from his sides, and waited. After a moment, he heard the sounds of an iron bar being pulled free and locks being released. The door opened with a small squeal, candlelight seeped out through the opening, and instantly a pair of cold metal tips pressed up against his neck. He stayed where he was, calm and unmoving, even when he saw the dark length of his staff sliding away from him, disappearing from view.
"Look at these carvings," a boy whispered in awe.
"Leave that alone," another snapped. Then to Logan, he said, "Those are prods you feel. You know what they are, what they can do?"