Chapter 10: Beneath the Bridge

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it’s

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

--e. e. cummings, “[in Just-]”

“Where’s Fox? Where’s Schrodinger?” Under her increasingly soggy bag, Diana’s eyes expanded.

Because she had no answer, Grace said “Let’s get out of the rain.” Beyond a pile of broken glass was a concrete bridge. A single light glowed underneath. They moved like they were doing a three-legged-race. Grace felt jealous Diana had slippers while she was forced to march barefoot. Diana assured her the slippers were no more protection than their soaked hospital garments.

The light turned out to be a burning trashcan which heated a grimy cauldron on a spit. They warmed their hands while keeping away from a pile of rags that appeared to breathe.

“Okay,” Grace spoke from across the fire, “what do we know? Our friends are probably still in that hall, but we can’t warn them about the skunk.”

“We can’t go back,” Diana said. “I dropped Emily’s book that helped us leave. B…but Schrodinger said all libraries are connected. Maybe we find the one closest, with another copy of the book?”

“Good idea.” Grace tried to smile through chattering teeth. “Maybe Schrodinger’s already led Fox to those Archives, and they’re safe. But I can tell, it’s late. Don’t think any libraries are open now.”

“Wait till morning, then.” Diana’s own teeth chattered. “If we don’t freeze, first.”

Grace was about to suggest commandeering some clothes from the pile before she heard a harsh voice from the edge of the bridge.

“By the six nostrils of the Morrigan, everything stinks.” The upside-down face of an old raven peered in. Grace could hardly forget that evil eye. Chiaroscuro flapped inside, shaking moisture off his wings. “How many skunks were here?”

“Just one,” Grace said in the language of birds. Diana looked confused.

“Good, then we should have him outnumbered.” Jackanapes flew in behind Chiaroscuro. Albumen, Offal, Ragamuffin, and—finally—Dusky followed.

“Who’s your new friend, Gracie?” Ragamuffin sounded jealous.

“Oh, well this’s Diana Hemlock…” Grace looked over to the squonk.

“Noooo! Don’t talk about me.” Diana wringed her warty hands. “Even to those blackbirds. It’s so embarrassing to be made the center of attention. Even for a moment. My mask’s coming apart, too!”

“How’d you find me?” Grace changed the subject, hoping the corvids would ignore the insult of being mistaken for blackbirds. Albumen had a gold canister strapped to his white leg. Ragamuffin held a glowing red sphere that produced constant wisps of steam. “Is that Bennu?”

“Yeah!” Ragamuffin proudly puffed out her chest feathers. “Want to hold the egg?”

“Sure.” The warmth of the sun now rested in Grace’s palms. Though probably just as rained-on as the dripping crows, it felt pleasantly dry. But thankfully no longer as hot as when it came straight out of the pyre.

“First it was a cuckoo hunt,” said Chiaroscuro, “then it morphed into a snipe hunt, and finally a skunk hunt! I wouldn’t enter that asylum, but smelt somethin’ terrible on the grounds, plus a clear trail away that seemed as good a lead as any.”

“Where were you, Gracie?” asked Offal. “We came back for ya’, like we promised.”

“Thank you,” Grace said sincerely. “But my friend here…” she turned from Diana, “well, point’s we got out. I’m going home soon, right after we find this one library. There’s someone to translate the scroll, but just noticed, where’s Waif?”

He alone out of Mrs. Tatters and Ol’ Hoary’s children was absent. The siblings looked at each other nervously, but not in an embarrassed way. More from dread.

“That’s why it took so long to get you,” said Albumen. “Waif fell in with some crows who knew some person named ‘O’ he thought might know how to help Bennu hatch.”

“Something about a volcano,” Offal jumped in. “Whatever that is.”

Without specifically mentioning Diana, Grace summarized to her bird friends what happened since Jackanapes fled the Institute. She had gotten to describing the strange hall of doors when she smelled something wretched on the wind.

Skunks are often the butt of jokes. There just seems to be something inherently ridiculous about an animal whose only claim to fame is its stink, and the embarrassing way it is spread around. In cartoons, for example, this spray is always used for slapstick. Grace would guarantee, if asked, that when the skunk in question is bigger than a subway car, the possibility of getting sprayed becomes a great deal less humorous. The additional facts that the Aniwye was cunning, brutal, and eager to consume flesh made his reappearance downright terrifying.

Thick limbs brought him at his own pace. Neither fast nor slow, but inevitable. His claws gouged tracks in cement. Even the sound was sharp enough to hurt. A striped, piebald tail appropriately shaped like a toilet brush swayed with the wind. The Aniwye had no neck to speak of. A triangular head simply fused to a bulky torso, but he squarely faced the reunited companions.

Nobody under the bridge moved. Unless one counts Diana’s crying.

“Hssss, seems you sweet girls stumbled on some private business not concerning you in the least.” Stray cement chips vibrated along to the Aniwye’s deep rumble. “You’ll die, anyway.” He paused, as if expecting some response. Perhaps screams, or cries for mercy.

In truth, everyone felt too frightened to think up any reply.

“Even from here, I see heat of the phoenix egg.” The Aniwye’s bristly tail wagged up-and-down. “The brightness irritates me, but my mistress demands it for her collection!” He stuck his face into the bridge’s underside.

The strangest thing was, while his jaws were the most obvious danger, what truly disturbed Grace were his squinting black eyes. Beads compared to rest of his enormous head, that still made them the size of hubcaps. They stripped her barer than if she was naked, than if she were bones. Whatever uneasiness she previously had making eye contact with humans felt dwarfed by those dark mirrors. It was certainly a version of Grace reflected back. But in some mysterious way, they magnified her faults, showing all the moments in her life when she behaved hatefully or selfishly.

It might have been a blessing Diana cowered in a fetal position by a rotten pile of garbage, because she likely could not survive eye contact. Trying not to think of death, Grace wondered if that was why the skunk acted so aggressive. It must feel awful, always seeing the worst in others.

Scaled to the size he was, Grace figured the skunk’s spray would have the force of a waterfall. Albumen directed the corvids to the opposite side of the bridge, ready to flee. Grace meant to follow, after helping Diana off the ground. The Aniwye’s black-and-white tail stood up like a radio tower. He started turning.

Then, the monster briefly stormed off. There came sounds of a cat hissing and what could easily be mistaken for hail. From a crouched position, Grace viewed Schrodinger and Fox. Rather than stones falling from a cloud, Fox was directing them with mad waves of her arms.

Fist-sized rocks—larger than anything she previously summoned—rapidly tattooed the Aniwye’s limbs and sides, just as quickly ricocheting off. Schrodinger tried clawing the giant skunk’s face, but in the staring contest between the grimalkin’s green eyes and those dark mirrors, the Aniwye won.

“Guys!” Grace strained her voice to be heard. “Over here! Get cover!” Her view got obstructed by the Aniwye’s bulk, until a gap appeared which Fox and Schrodinger scampered through.

Schrodinger lay on his side. His eyes were drawn to Albumen. Near out of breath, he asked “Is that my gold scroll tied on your leg?”

The group of corvids squawked madly. “A cat in here?” Chiaroscuro asked rhetorically, “I’ll take my chances out there with the skunk.” And he flew back into the rain, sniping and stabbing the Aniwye’s face while constantly insulting the skunk.

“It’s a distraction,” said Dusky. He tested his wings, preparing to flee out the other side of the bridge. If so, it was a poor distraction. The Aniwye completely ignored Chiaroscuro.

Still, to the old raven’s credit, he stared down the dark mirrors with his own evil eye, and did not flinch. Chiaroscuro only backed down when it was clear his efforts were pointless. “Ah, I miss the Stymphalian bird!” he claimed after returning to the group. “For something of steel, it was much easier to beat.”

“I hate metal.” Fox shivered. He padded coat failed to keep out rain, and her goggles fogged up. This did nothing to inhibit her striking the Aniwye. He was so big a target, it proved harder not to hit him. Yet, those efforts also proved futile. Exhausting herself, she fell beside Diana.

The Aniwye reached out his claws. Grace figured the corvids could save themselves, but she could hardly carry two other girls and a cat to a safe distance. Not like when she had been able to move Ragamuffin the time Bennu exploded inside the crow’s hollow. Besides, her hands were already full.

Grace knew regular skunks tended to avoid bright city lights, such as lampposts. Her mother once said this was because they were nocturnal, and their eyes were ill-used to it. Would the same thing bother a giant skunk? In fact, it could possibly be even more effective! Those giant-yet-still-beady eyes that made the deepest parts of Grace sick might also be the Aniwye’s weak point. Bennu’s egg was bright, the same as his adult form. The phoenix reacted to heat, even just a tiny spark…

Her bare feet had already gone numb, so if she stepped on any rocks or glass during her sprint back to the burning trashcan, pain failed to find her. Aiming below the bubbling cauldron, Grace hurled the red sphere into the embers, then covered her eyes and face with her elbows.

“Now everyone: stay still!” the Aniwye was ordering. “I don’t want any damaged merchandise, so I have to get my spray precise the one time. Takes too long to reload.” Before he could fully turn, he caught the flash of light Grace set off. A sudden burst of cinnamon masked his reek, and the skunk slipped and fell from the rain.

Those under the bridge had to wait for their vision to return. Fox pulled herself and Diana off the ground. They almost tripped on the breathing bag of rags. Schrodinger stuck with Grace by the flaming trashcan. The corvids flapped chaotically, but did not fly away.

“I’ll kill you!” is what the Aniwye might have said. It proved hard to tell among the growls, barks, and hisses. His dark eyes now screwed shut. What cursed power they held was made irrelevant.

Grace raised both palms in peace. Not that the monster could see. “If you spray everyone now, you might break the phoenix egg. Then you won’t get paid for all the work you did chasing my friends.”

“I could sweep you all out with one claw.” The acoustics of the bridge provided the Aniwye his own chorus of menacing echoes.

“Oh, I’m sure you could.” Grace still had a hunch the Aniwye might be uniquely vulnerable to flattery, as with a duck. “I’d rather you didn’t, obviously.”

“By gold or blood, you’ll pay!” but the Aniwye sounded pleased. “I might even need spectacles. For now, I’m sopping, and want to return to my den. But I’ll get that blasted egg!” he continued to threaten as he blindly ambled away. But the monster’s heart was clearly not in it.

The underside of the bridge was slick and moist. Water dripped there and here. Some uncategorized green slime grew on the walls. Compared to the outside torrent, though, it was a pleasant cottage. If only the companions could do something about the cutting winds that managed to creep up on them. The humans were stuck wearing soggy hospital gowns whose thin fabric chaffed in the most embarrassing areas. Grace even lacked trousers. Only Fox had some protection with her padded coat, but the hail of stones kept her from sharing it with anyone.

Schrodinger remained soaked, no matter how violently he shook himself. He explained why they could not find solace in the Croatoan Archives. “Tatum Levinson and I arrived, sure enough, but the place was abandoned. Befouled. Right where the card catalogue should have been, we found a cobweb-coated pit. Shelves were in total disarray. Half the books were burned, the other half stunk. Aitvaras was likely involved, and tracking the stink to this very bridge proves the Aniwye definitely was.”

Grace gulped. “Mr. Aitvaras and the Aniwye know each other?”

“I believe they have the same employer,” Schrodinger answered. “Aitvaras is sustained by greed, but I don’t know why the Aniwye wants money. He’s nothing like the ‘civilized’ animals in picture books. He doesn’t wear clothes, or take tea. He has little in common with humanity beyond his ability to speak. Astral creatures are wild, things of nature. Which makes them ruthless.”

Crows made the same point whenever they stole, fought, or did things humans consider criminal. Ol’ Hoary stressed to Grace that keeping different species to identical moral standards would not only prove impossible, but become absurd. However gently a bird might behave around her, they always had the potential to turn vicious, and saw nothing wrong with it. It was how they survived without civilization.

“Is it the same for grimalkins?” asked Grace. She frankly welcomed any distraction from how cold she felt.

“No,” Schrodinger seemed pleased to state. “Grimalkins are more-or-less domesticated. We’re born from the dreams of cats, who live with humans, aiding against our mutual enemy: vermin. Regardless, in return for finding my tongue, I have led Tatum Levinson and Diana Hemlock out of their asylum. You two are free to find your own ways, or join Grace Grey’s journey, which for now coincides with my own. We mean to return both this phoenix egg and my scroll,” he glanced at where Albumen perched, “to their ideal places.”

“Wh…where else w…would we go?” Diana stuttered through her shivering. “N…not into this storm.”

“That I cannot tell you.” Schrodinger shook his head sadly. (Or maybe he was trying to get water out of his ears.) “But fair warning, if you mean to travel further in the Astral, there are beasts not nearly as friendly as me out there.”

“Indeed.” A woman’s voice came from the pile of rags. “However, things aren’t all dire in the world of dreams. Merely…unpredictable. You’ll meet lots of animals that think they’re people, and people that think they’re animals. To speak nothing of the hybrids.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The bundle of old clothes fell away, revealing what Grace first took to be an old woman. Upon closer inspection, she wondered how she could have made such a mistake! For one thing, horns sprouted out the top of the figure’s head. Instead of feet, there were hooves split down the middle. The horned, hoofed being headed to the trashcan where the corvids now congregated around Bennu’s egg. “Greetings, guests! I am the famous, respected, proverbial Doctor Bezoar Wilhelmina von Gruff. Best geologist in nine worlds, guaranteed. Granted, I’m on vacation at the moment. I’ve made this bridge my home, to better experience the finer things in life.”

“How well can you live when you’re homeless?” Fox asked with her usual level of sensitivity.

The woman-who-honestly-looked-more-like-a-goat-than-anything-else bleated. “I’m not ‘homeless,’ kid. That makes it out like I lost something. Really, I’ve gained so much. No, I am a hobo. As valid a career path as any other. I should dread the day my noble, simple, honest way of life is seen as some unfortunate set of circumstances.”

Suddenly aware of the girls’ continued shivering, Dr. Bezoar wheeled a shopping cart to them from what was either a nook or a cranny. “I know not everyone has fur or feathers for protection when the weather’s notsogood,” she said all in one word. She motioned the girls to peruse clothes out of a bag. Most were adult-sized, so fit loosely. A selection of belts helped, but the goat-woman insisted on keeping leather ones “For appetizers.”

“We’ve spent so many years inside,” complained Diana, “Away from pollen and dander. Allergies will probably kill us soon, but it’s either these rags or hypothermia now.”

Fox inspected a label. “Ew. Polyblended? I can’t wear this.”

“Better than stealing them off a clothesline, or something,” argued Grace. “We’d be caught by the police our first day out! Probably sent back to Ambrosius. I’ve seen what his spores do, and it’s worse than any pollen.” She shuddered.

Dr. Bezoar handed her a dry towel. The other girls grumbled, but dressed themselves. Privately, Grace disliked the smell, which was, of course, that of a goat. (If you ever were punished with a visit to a petting zoo, you know how unpleasant that is.)

Grace knew there were worse odors in the world, however. The clothes were dirty and was that straw? Despite these defects, the hand-me-downs were dry.

While medical clothes would expose them as hospital patients to any humans they might encounter, none of the available coats were thick enough to protect Fox from her stones like the one she brought from the Institute. She tried covering it with a black jacket that had a jagged zipper. She put her goggles in a pocket and picked out a frayed, poofy blouse. She yanked up a tartan skirt that trailed down to her ankles. After looping a belt, she slipped on some work boots spattered with what she audibly doubted was mud.

Diana settled for a pair of tan corduroy trousers, then attempted to stretch a cyan sweater over her neck without disturbing the soggy bag she still wore. As a way to cover warts on her hands, she picked a mismatched pair of wool gloves. Her shoes were rather simple, with buckles, worn over socks with different lengths.

“I can give a replacement bag, if you prefer,” Dr. Bezoar gestured to an array of brown paper bags as if they were something extravagant. “Or how ’bout a mask? Cloth’s a bit more durable, especially if you’re going on a voyage.”

Diana’s fingers drifted to a ski-mask the color of a bruise. She compelled everyone to look away while she put it on. “No peeking, or I’ll die of embarrassment! I must save face.” Grace kept Chiaroscuro honest until Diana turned around. Except for her eyes and mouth, the mask covered everything.

For her part, Grace decided on a pair of overalls similar to what she used to wear at her park. Though here, the denim was still blue. Under, she wore a long-sleeve shirt apparently quilted from other shirts—striped, checkered, and polka-dot, plus plaid patches on the elbows. What she most appreciated were some socks to cover her numb feet. She picked a pair of sneakers with long shoelaces she had to tie several times over (which she always had trouble doing). Last, she wrapped a tasseled red scarf around her neck.

Chiaroscuro had snatched Bennu’s egg from the trashcan embers without being singed. Grace’s throw failed to leave so much as a scuff on the shell. It might very well survive a volcano. The old ravens brought the egg to a moist pile of newspapers, where Dusky took a turn sitting on it.

“Thank you, um, Dr. Bezoar.” Grace stopped to introduce herself and her friends. “Now that we know who you are, I want to ask what you are. I mean, if that’s not too rude a thing to ask.”

“Obviously I’m a satyr, kid.” Dr. Bezoar turned a yellow eye to Grace. The pupil was rectangle-shaped.

“I thought satyrs were male.” Diana’s voice came out as a peep. She tugged the end of her ski mask twice. “The old poems say nymphs are girls, satyrs are boys.”

The scruffy goat-woman sighed like an asthma attack. “Well, everyone with facial hair probably seems masculine to humans. But in goat culture, it’s perfectly natural for females to possess a beard. In fact, a clean-shaven nanny…well, that’s what would appear unsettling.”

“That’s why they’re called goat-tees, after all,” Chiaroscuro quipped as he landed on Grace’s shoulder.

“Exactly!” Dr. Bezoar somehow understood the language of birds, but failed to recognize the raven’s sarcasm. “Every dream-beast derives from the hopes and desires of an animal species. Goats dream of travel, food, and traveling to get food. It’s not exactly we wish to be human, but humans travel far and have one thing any privileged gourmet needs: hands. Can’t exactly operate silverware with hooves. Even the cloven sort.”

Grace’s stomach growled, setting off Fox’s and Diana’s. Whatever BB pellets might wind up in the asylum’s gruel, it was still three regular meals a day. Now they were out in the world, how would they find food on a day-to-day basis?

“Oh, you kids must be hungry,” Dr. Bezoar clapped her hands. The looked entirely human, if a little extra hairy. “I so rarely host visitors, so I’d be honored to have you attend my evening meal.”

Schrodinger turned up his pink nose, saying he would hunt mice. “Try out the old taste-buds. See they’re in proper order. Not that I can trade it in for a new one if they don’t taste as well as before.”

Offal, by contrast, cheered and made for the cauldron. Enthusiasm died when he got a full look of what was cooking. “Yuck, how can you possibly eat that stuff?” His tone was equal parts indignation and betrayal.

“Dunno what you mean, little birdy.” Dr. Bezoar’s rectangular pupils stared in opposite directions. One viewed her cauldron while the other watched her shopping cart. “My stew’s got all the nutrients and minerals you’d need except cinnamon. Satyrs figure what’s inside the can isn’t half as important as the can itself. I only add the most high-quality tin to my stew. Some satyrs prefer glass, and I’ll eat it myself, don’t get me wrong. Has a nice crunch. In fact…”

The old goat-woman clopped to her shopping cart. Pulling back a corner of a moth-eaten quilt, she brought out a glass bottle of baby food, which she chucked into the pot. “What about you girls?” She turned her split gaze to Grace, Fox, and Diana. Nodding her head as if listening to a tune only she took notice of.

“That’d cut up my insides.” Diana spoke with a pained squeal. “But if I don’t eat, I’ll starve.” She crossed bandaged hands over her heaving chest.

“A goat creature might be able to eat tin cans,” said Grace. “But we’re human.”

“Mostly human,” corrected Fox. “Ambrosius called us changelings. So did the cat. Like it or not, I guess we all have some piece of fairy inside us.” She blocked some pebbles with her scabby hands. “Any chance you’ve got an umbrella in that cart?”

Dr. Bezoar did, but it was full of holes. The satyr inspected a handful of materialized stones. “You don’t mind if I take samples for my private geological collection, kid?”

“Whatever.” Fox swatted away the question like it was a mosquito. “You should know, they disappear after a while. The smaller they are, the faster they leave, but trying to keep any’s pointless.”

“No problem.” Dr. Bezoar continued nodding. “Say, I’ve been holdin’ onto a delicacy for a special occasion. Not being sprayed to death by a giant skunk seems as good as any.”

“What do you have?” Jackanapes was more hesitant than Offal.

“Animal? Vegetable? Mineral?” asked Ragamuffin.

“Correct!” Above Dr. Bezoar’s heavy goatee was a wide grin. She hauled a spotless, shiny, silver platter out of the cart. No one noticed the beautiful platter, however, because of the foul thing lying on it. Its color was a stomach-churning mix of grays, greens, and blues.

Stabbing ammonia became just another in the exhaustive parade of gross olfactory ordeals for that night.

“I have here the delicious thousand-year egg, direct from China. Except I had to acquire it from merchants in Yokai-Town. Now, I doubt it’s exactly a thousand years old, but saying ‘Nine-hundred-ninety-nine-year egg’ just wouldn’t sound as impressive. Smells lovely, doesn’t it?” Dr. Bezoar carried the platter to the group. “There’s enough for everyone to have themselves a decent nibble.”

“No!” Fox shouted what everyone else was too paralyzed to. “Don’t take that slimy thing near us! We don’t want to spoil our appetite…for life. It may be terrible, but it’s life, y’now? I don’t want it to end now. There might be something good on the radio.”

Unoffended, Dr. Bezoar shrugged and added the egg to her stew. “Most things get better with age. Any maggots are just bonus protein. I’m curious, though, what’d you folks do to make that skunk so angry?”

“He was an egg snatcher,” Schrodinger explained. “No doubt working for an individual we grimalkins try not to mention. Her name tends to make others laugh. Which, in turn, makes her hopping mad. Snatchers caused the extinction of countless species of magical birds, reptiles, and, once, a monotreme called a bunyip. That snatcher wanted a phoenix egg from this girl and her pet corvids.”

“Pets? We are not—” Chiaroscuro acted unsure as what to say when he was at the other end of being offended.

“Well, I don’t blame you for bringin’ that thing to my front stoop.” Dr. Bezoar stirred her stew with a ladle. “To claim this bridge, I defeated a monster of my own. A nasty, greedy trow who charged passers-by money for their lives. You’ve made my evening memorable, at least. We hobos have a rigid code of conduct, one part be’in the virtue of hospitality. Since—for some reason—you’re not interested in my cooking, I’d like to offer you a gift.” She pointed at Grace.

Diana slumped back to the ground. “So, Fox gets a favor from Schrodinger when she accidentally freed his missing tongue, now Grace gets a prize from a lady-satyr. Nobody ever offers me supernatural aid.”

“Perhaps you’ll gain the blessing of a god someday, Diana Hemlock.” Schrodinger’s voice came from the darkness. “Till then, at least you have dry clothes.”

“To be fair,” added Dr. Bezoar, “it’s Grace’s quick thinking to take a potentially explosive phoenix egg and set it aflame in a narrow, confined space that means we’re still alive.”

“I did some fighting, too,” Fox mumbled out the side of her mouth. “Not that I want anything.”

Dr. Bezoar stuck her hands into her cart, reaching further down than her elbows. She dug out, in order: a handkerchief bindle on a stick; a battered suitcase covered in travel stickers from places all over the world, including Antarctica and Atlantis; a chewed-up baseball; a cracked bowling ball; a rusty frying pan; an even rustier spatula; a broken vase full of dead flowers; a mutilated teddy bear leaking cotton from a mortal chest wound; a hatchet blade without a handle; a German-to-Aklo dictionary; an empty aquarium; a full aquarium where living (albeit miniature) crabs, jellyfish, eels, and sharks swum among coral and algae; a bucket half-full of dried mud; a bottle of sunscreen; a pair of aviator sunglasses with one cracked lens; an axe handle without a blade, until finally getting to what she was looking for.

In both arms, she carried a stained, well-folded bundle that looked like it was originally a bedsheet. Carefully, she unwrapped it, smoothing cloth out onto the cement. On top rested a loose collection of rocks and stones.

“How’s that little shopping cart so deep?” asked Ragamuffin.

Dr. Bezoar bleated. Apparently, that was how she laughed. “Oh, it’s only deeper than you think it should be, birdie. I myself have no personal prejudices regarding the size and scope of the world.”

Fox did not understand Ragamuffin, but hearing the goat-woman, asked “There’s a hall of doors where people do the limbo, or something, and space’s all different. Is one of those doors inside the cart?”

“Why, you kids really are newcomers to Astral travel!” Dr. Bezoar slapped a thigh. “First, you ought to know—depending where you are in it—length, width, or height won’t necessarily be equal to any other part of the dream world. Same fact even applies to time. One day in a particular dreamscape might equal a hundred years back on Earth. Mapping the Astral is mindboggling difficult. It’d take a great legend. But now’s not the time for work talk.

“See, Grace-kid? Pick which rock belongs to you. Anything out of my stone collection, you can take home. It’s getting too big as is, especially for my vagabond lifestyle. I’m always tracking down new rocks anyway. You’re actually doing me a favor!”

“You’ll give me anything here?” Grace felt unsure why she would want to carry around a goat’s stone, especially now she was on the lam.

“Certainly not!” Dr. Bezoar responded with such force; Grace was forced back several feet. “I mean: what item here already belongs to you. I just happened to be the one holding it awhile, before I knew that I’d know you. Think—which stone calls to you? The future’s all laid out before you, kid. How many folks can say that?”

The satyr did not wait for an answer. “For example, take the adder’s stone.” She held up a piece of glass shaped like a donut. “A water snake’s venom burnt a hole clear through!” She placed it before one rectangular eye, like a curious monocle. “With it, I see past all witchcrafts, further than anyone else. It could make you a great detective, to penetrate every illusion or glamour.”

“Well,” Grace said after swallowing away her dry mouth, “I figure I’d like to find things out at my own pace, instead of all at once. I don’t need to chase mysteries.”

Never giving up, Dr. Bezoar continued pointing out stones while explaining their magical properties. “But are you sure,” she would ask each time Grace rejected one, as if it were the satyr’s personal agenda to push each individual item. Then, any loyalty was wholly abandoned as the next stone became “The best in the collection.”

“Now, this is my special toadstone, which changes colors in the presence of toxins.” The stone was shaped like a smooth seed pod, and currently a creamy brown. “It fell out the head of a prince who was turned into a toad. Least, that’s what he claimed. Maybe his surname just happened to be ‘Prince?’ Regardless, I found the encounter riveting.” Dr. Bezoar scratched a horn. “But I think nowadays it’s cliché for a witch to turn people into amphibians. I mean, you could just as soon turn them into a tuatara!”

“My mom was a nurse,” Grace said. “Is a nurse,” she checked herself.

“So, join the family business. Go ahead and hold it, kid. Don’t worry about warts. That’s a myth, and a darn hurtful one at that! The toadstone could make you a great doctor.”

“I’m not sure.” Grace bit her lip.

“Okay. This sharp thing,” Dr. Bezoar balanced a shard of flint between two fingertips, “is from the dress of Utlunta, a witch that hangs out with giant wolves in the wildest places of the world. It doesn’t do anything you might call ‘magical,’ but makes an impressive souvenir.”

“You took it off a witch?” asked Jackanapes. “How’d you survive?”

“Honestly, it fell off the dress and I picked it up later,” confessed Dr. Bezoar. “If I’d actually tried stealing it, she’d have speared my gullet with her fingernail! Witches or wolves, the one trick to surviving encounters with them is to only come around when they’re not hungry. Trouble is, they usually are. Speaking of which, my stew’s ready!”

“Before I take a break, here are kidney stones!” Without asking, Dr. Bezoar dropped some yellow gravel into Grace’s hands. The satyr ran to make herself a bowl of stew, which the old goat somehow managed to eat with her hands.

“You…made these yourself?” asked Diana. Her now-visible lips formed a white line. “On second thought,” she mumbled, “perhaps me never receiving favors is a boon in itself.”

“The very scandal!” Dr. Bezoar only heard the first comment. “In front of kids, no less! As a dignified nanny goat,” she said in-between large bites of spoiled food, broken glass, and metal, “I’d never expose my own kidney stones! No, I bought them off a stranger. Worth every cent, though he meant to just throw them away. What a wasteful society we live in.” She shook her head.

“What do kidney stones do?” Grace had thrown them back on the sheet as soon as they made contact. She wanted to wash her hands in the rain.

“No clue.” Dr. Bezoar swallowed more of what she considered food. “Adults say everyone’s got to do something for a living once they’ve grown up. I think the ‘for’ is a bit overemphasized. The focus should lie on ‘living.’ Specifically, living the life you most want.” She finished eating, licking the bottom of her bowl.

“Now these,” she gestured, “are stones that came out of my body. But I coughed ‘em up. Not the…other way.” The stones were tannish-brown, with spiral indentations curving their ways from top to bottom. “It’s basically hard knots of vegetation.”

“A hairball, then.” Schrodinger sauntered in from the shadows. He had gone to hunt down a mouse, and now prepared to eat it.

“Don’t sound so coarse. I call them ‘Von Gruff’s genuine, all-natural, homemade nostrum bezoars!’” Even when making a statement, the satyr managed to sound like she was asking a question. “Patent pending.”

Grace quietly surveyed the collection. Not all were rocks. Some were actually gems, though layers of dirt did a frustratingly good job of obscuring their beauty. She came to a blue-black one shaped like a heart. “Wait, is this…?”

“Yep,” Dr. Bezoar wiped her dirty hands on her coat. “This here diamond used to be a rather ill-tempered lizard, squished over millions of years. Might be money to some people, but I’ve no need of that when I already have all this splendor you see before you!” She waved melodramatically.

Whatever else Grace saw among the rubbish, nothing struck her as splendor. Squalor, maybe.

“Go back to the world and become a jeweler.” Dr. Bezoar continued waving. “Or, make your first investment in a bank. Use it as a drill and dig to the other side of the world. A diamond’s got a lot of practical uses, I’ll admit. Just none to me, personally. You can’t eat a diamond—far too much roughage. Doesn’t go down smoothly, like glass. I truly believe the most valuable things in life are what you can eat without making yourself sick.”

Grace seriously considered taking the diamond. With the blue-black jewel, she could buy supplies for her companions, instead of having to scavenge or steal to survive. She might even have enough money left over to care for her family when this adventure finally ended. While they never spoke openly about it in front of her, she knew her parents struggled to make ends meet. Even with both working so hard she did not get to see them even half as often as she wished.

Then, it occurred to her how suspicious a kid carrying around such a rare gem would look. No doubt some adult would believe it was stolen. If she and her friends went to the wrong place, an actual thief might take—even kill—for it. A diamond would almost certainly lead to more trouble. Grace shook her head, but spotted the jewel lying next to it.

“Um, Dr. Bezoar.” She pointed. “You haven’t told me what this stone is.”

“Oh, yes.” The satyr smiled. “I could tell you any number of things about the agate. I’ve been sitting on that for a friend in Spain. But it’s been years, so it’s doubtful he’ll ever come back for it. If he does, well, really, that’s his problem, not yours. Suffice that you should only take this stone if you’re okay with learning how to fly!”

“You mean, it lets me fly when I touch it?” Grace held the agate. She did not immediately sail into the air like a funny-book hero. She raised her hand to see if that would help lift-off. She whispered the command “Fly.” She even jumped, but came right back down to the ground.

“Eh, not quite,” said Dr. Bezoar. “You’ll have to figure it out yourself. That is, if you want to take on the danger.”

The agate did not look all that dangerous. Under inspection, Grace saw it was mostly red-brown, mottled with white and gray bands. In shape, the gem was uneven, but basically oval. True, it did not sparkle like the diamond could, but it possessed its own beauty. Up close, the surface resembled rivers of lava, flowing into each other.

It fit well in Grace’s hand; a bit bigger than her palm. While the rest of Dr. Bezoar’s collection felt cold (especially the kidney stones) the agate was warm to the touch. A subtle warmth, not obvious like the heat from Bennu’s egg. But could that mean the stone was calling to her? That night, she had already made her flight from the Ambrosius Institute along with her friends. Grace wanted to continue flying. If there was a chance to experience what her bird friends always bragged about—without an airplane—why not do so? It might well bring her as high as Nephelokokkygia, where Bennu would hopefully return soon.

Yes, Grace had to pick the agate.

If on her deathbed Grace composed a list of all the regrets in her life, from minor to major to mortal, catalogued and alphabetized from birth to just that last second, including the good decisions that came with unintended consequences that marred full satisfaction, taking the agate would never be on that list. Not if she happened to live for centuries.