retracted the claw. "I lost my Papa tonight," she said solemnly. "I don't want to lose you too."
"I've known Blessedm'ns less persuasive than you," Coker remarked softly. His voice was tinged with awe. "What kind of child are you?"
"Irish," Maeve replied. "Are we going then?"
She looked back towards the crack. The ground at its base was shifting, the stones and trampled snow softened in the heat of whatever power had opened this door, drawn through the threshold then pouring back again. She started towards it fearlessly but as she did so Coker laid his hand on her shoulder. "Do you understand what you're doing?" he said.
"Yes," she said, a little impatiently. She wanted to walk on that ebbing dirt. She wanted to know how it felt. But Coker hadn't done with his warnings.
"Quiddity's a dream-sea," he said, "and the countries there are swinge."
"So's America," she said.
"Stranger than America. They're born from what's in here." He tapped her temple with his finger.
"People dream countries?"
"More than countries. they dream animals and birds and cities and books and moons and stars."
"they all dream the same books and birdst' she said.
"the shapes are different," Coker replied somewhat hesitantly, "But@e souls of things are the same."
She looked at him in befuddlement. "Whatever you say," she replied.
.No, it's important you understand," he insisted. He paused for a moment, frowning as he dug for enlightenment. Then it came. "My father used to say: Every bird is one biri4 and every book is one book, and every bird and every book is one thing too, under the words and the feathers." He finished with a flourish, as though the meaning of this was self-evident. But Maeve simply shook her head, more confounded than ever. "Does this mean you're sonWhody's dream?" she said.
"No," Coker told her. "I'm the child of a trespasser!"
Here at least was something she grasped.
"Quiddity wasn't meant to be a place of flesh and blood," he went on.
"But people get through?"
"A few. Tricksters, poets, magicians. Some of them die. Some of them go crazy. And some of them fall in love with the things they find, and children come, who are part human and part not" He spread his arms and his wings. "Like me."
"I do," she said with a sly little smile. "I like you a lot."
But he was deadly serious. "I want you to know what you're doing when you step through that crack."
"I don't mind being a trespasser."
"You'll be living in a place where your people can only come in dreams, and then only @ times. The night they're born. The night they fall in love. And the night they die."
She thought of her Papa then, who'd spoken of floating in a calm sea with her Mama beside him. Had that sea been Quiddity?
"I want to go," she said, more eager than ever.
"As long as you understand," he said.
"I do," she told him. "Now, can we go?"
He nodded, and she was away in a heartbeat, stepping lightly over the shifting ground.
If Buddenbaum had learned anything in his years of wandering, it was that things mundane and things miraculous were not, as had it, irrevocably divided. Quite the reverse. Though continent was everywhere being measured and possessed unmagical minds, its sacred places overrun, and their guardians driven to drink and despair, the land was too deeply seeded with the strange to ever be made safe for the pioneer.
The proof was spread before him on the mountain slope. Creatures from the far side of sleep, breathing the same air as the brave souls who'd come to conquer this land; dying with the same stars overhead.
Walking among the corpses, he felt the itch to hike back down the trail and fetch a few of the pioneers back, to show to them that they were not the only travelers here, and that no law nor God nor well-laid pavement would keep beasts like these from coming again. He might have done so too, but for the girl. She was here somewhere, his instinct told him, and alive. Whatever mischief had brought this massacre al>out, she had
"I've known Blessedm'ns less persuasive than you," Coker remarked softly. His voice was tinged with awe. "What kind of child are you?"
"Irish," Maeve replied. "Are we going then?"
She looked back towards the crack. The ground at its base was shifting, the stones and trampled snow softened in the heat of whatever power had opened this door, drawn through the threshold then pouring back again. She started towards it fearlessly but as she did so Coker laid his hand on her shoulder. "Do you understand what you're doing?" he said.
"Yes," she said, a little impatiently. She wanted to walk on that ebbing dirt. She wanted to know how it felt. But Coker hadn't done with his warnings.
"Quiddity's a dream-sea," he said, "and the countries there are swinge."
"So's America," she said.
"Stranger than America. They're born from what's in here." He tapped her temple with his finger.
"People dream countries?"
"More than countries. they dream animals and birds and cities and books and moons and stars."
"they all dream the same books and birdst' she said.
"the shapes are different," Coker replied somewhat hesitantly, "But@e souls of things are the same."
She looked at him in befuddlement. "Whatever you say," she replied.
.No, it's important you understand," he insisted. He paused for a moment, frowning as he dug for enlightenment. Then it came. "My father used to say: Every bird is one biri4 and every book is one book, and every bird and every book is one thing too, under the words and the feathers." He finished with a flourish, as though the meaning of this was self-evident. But Maeve simply shook her head, more confounded than ever. "Does this mean you're sonWhody's dream?" she said.
"No," Coker told her. "I'm the child of a trespasser!"
Here at least was something she grasped.
"Quiddity wasn't meant to be a place of flesh and blood," he went on.
"But people get through?"
"A few. Tricksters, poets, magicians. Some of them die. Some of them go crazy. And some of them fall in love with the things they find, and children come, who are part human and part not" He spread his arms and his wings. "Like me."
"I do," she said with a sly little smile. "I like you a lot."
But he was deadly serious. "I want you to know what you're doing when you step through that crack."
"I don't mind being a trespasser."
"You'll be living in a place where your people can only come in dreams, and then only @ times. The night they're born. The night they fall in love. And the night they die."
She thought of her Papa then, who'd spoken of floating in a calm sea with her Mama beside him. Had that sea been Quiddity?
"I want to go," she said, more eager than ever.
"As long as you understand," he said.
"I do," she told him. "Now, can we go?"
He nodded, and she was away in a heartbeat, stepping lightly over the shifting ground.
If Buddenbaum had learned anything in his years of wandering, it was that things mundane and things miraculous were not, as had it, irrevocably divided. Quite the reverse. Though continent was everywhere being measured and possessed unmagical minds, its sacred places overrun, and their guardians driven to drink and despair, the land was too deeply seeded with the strange to ever be made safe for the pioneer.
The proof was spread before him on the mountain slope. Creatures from the far side of sleep, breathing the same air as the brave souls who'd come to conquer this land; dying with the same stars overhead.
Walking among the corpses, he felt the itch to hike back down the trail and fetch a few of the pioneers back, to show to them that they were not the only travelers here, and that no law nor God nor well-laid pavement would keep beasts like these from coming again. He might have done so too, but for the girl. She was here somewhere, his instinct told him, and alive. Whatever mischief had brought this massacre al>out, she had
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