Black House

"No, no," says Wendell in a mildly scolding voice. "Don’t. Don’t see. Don’t see. That." He lowers his head and once more begins trying to cram the batteries into the handful of paper.

The shadow of the newcomer falls over Wendell, who resolutely refuses to look up.

"Howdy, stranger," says the newcomer.

Wendell carries on not looking up.

"My name’s Parkus. I’m the law ’round these parts. What’s your handle?"

Wendell refuses to respond, unless we can call the low grunts issuing from his drool-slicked mouth a response.

"I asked your name."

"Wen," says our old acquaintance (we can’t really call him a friend) without looking up. "Wen. Dell. Gree . . . Green. I . . . I . . . I . . ."

"Take your time," Parkus says (not without sympathy). "I can wait till your branding iron gets hot."

"I . . . news hawk!"

"Oh? That what you are?" Parkus hunkers; Wendell cringes back against the fragile wall of the pavilion. "Well, don’t that just beat the bass drum at the front of the parade? Tell you what, I’ve seen fish hawks, and I’ve seen red hawks, and I’ve seen goshawks, but you’re my first news hawk."

Wendell looks up, blinking rapidly.

On Parkus’s left shoulder, one head of the parrot says: "God is love."

"Go f**k your mother," replies the other head.

"All must seek the river of life," says the first head.

"Suck my tool," says the second.

"We grow toward God," responds the first.

"Piss up a rope," invites the second.

Although both heads speak equably — even in tones of reasonable discourse — Wendell cringes backward even farther, then looks down and furiously resumes his futile work with the batteries and the handful of paper, which is now disappearing into the sweat-grimy tube of his fist.

"Don’t mind ’em," Parkus says. "I sure don’t. Hardly hear ’em anymore, and that’s the truth. Shut up, boys."

The parrot falls silent.

"One head’s Sacred, the other’s Profane," Parkus says. "I keep ’em around just to remind me that — "

He is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and stands up again in a single lithe and easy movement. Jack and Sophie are approaching, holding hands with the perfect unconsciousness of children on their way to school.

"Speedy!" Jack cries, his face breaking into a grin.

"Why, Travelin’ Jack!" Parkus says, with a grin of his own. "Well-met! Look at you, sir — you’re all grown up."

Jack rushes forward and throws his arms around Parkus, who hugs him back, and heartily. After a moment, Jack holds Parkus at arm’s length and studies him. "You were older — you looked older to me, at least. In both worlds."

Still smiling, Parkus nods. And when he speaks again, it is in Speedy Parker’s drawl. "Reckon I did look older, Jack. You were just a child, remember."

"But — "

Parkus waves one hand. "Sometimes I look older, sometimes not so old. It all depends on — "

"Age is wisdom," one head of the parrot says piously, to which the other responds, "You senile old f**k."

" — depends on the place and the circumstances," Parkus concludes, then says: "And I told you boys to shut up. You keep on, I’m apt to wring your scrawny neck." He turns his attention to Sophie, who is looking at him with wide, wondering eyes, as shy as a doe. "Sophie," he says. "It’s wonderful to see you, darling. Didn’t I say he’d come? And here he is. Took a little longer than I expected, is all."

She drops him a deep curtsey, all the way down to one knee, her head bowed. "Thankee-sai," she says. "Come in peace, gunslinger, and go your course along the Beam with my love."

At this, Jack feels an odd, deep chill, as if many worlds had spoken in a harmonic tone, low but resonant.

Speedy — so Jack still thinks of him — takes her hand and urges her to her feet. "Stand up, girl, and look me in the eye. I’m no gunslinger here, not in the borderlands, even if I do still carry the old iron from time to time. In any case, we have a lot to talk about. This’s no time for ceremony. Come over the rise with me, you two. We got to make palaver, as the gunslingers say. Or used to say, before the world moved on. I shot a good brace of grouse, and think they’ll cook up just fine."

"What about — " Jack gestures toward the muttering, crouched heap that is Wendell Green.

"Why, he looks right busy," Parkus says. "Told me he’s a news hawk."

"I’m afraid he’s a little above himself," Jack replies. "Old Wendell here’s a news vulture."

Wendell turns his head a bit. He refuses to lift his eyes, but his lip curls in a sneer that may be more reflexive than real. "Heard. That." He struggles. The lip curls again, and this time the sneer seems less reflexive. It is, in fact, a snarl. "Gol. Gol. Gol-den boy. Holly. Wood."

"He’s managed to retain at least some of his charm and his joi de vivre," Jack says. "Will he be okay here?"

"Not much with ary brain in its head comes near the Little Sisters’ tent," Parkus says. "He’ll be okay. And if he smells somethin’ tasty on the breeze and comes for a look-see, why, I guess we can feed him." He turns toward Wendell. "We’re going just over yonder. If you want to come and visit, why, you just up and do her. Understand me, Mr. News Hawk?"

"Wen. Dell. Green."

"Wendell Green, yessir." Parkus looks at the others. "Come on. Let’s mosey."

"We mustn’t forget him," Sophie murmurs, with a look back. "It will be dark in a few hours."