Free Dreams Underfoot: A Newford Collection by Charles De Lint, John Jude Palencar Page B

hissing and spitting. The not-music continued, but its tones were softened.
    “Let me see,” Jilly went on. “Uh, 1981, the Argentines invade—I can’t keep this up, Meran—the Falklands. 1715 ... that was the year of the first Jacobite uprising.”
    She’d always been good with historical trivia—having a head for dates—but the more she concentrated on them right now, the further they seemed to slip away. The skookin were regarding her with malevolence, just waiting for her to falter.
    “1978,” she said. “Sandy Denny died, falling down some stairs ....”
    She’d got that one from Geordie. The skookin took another step back and she stepped towards them, into the light, her eyes widening with shock. There was a small park there, vegetation dead, trees leafless and skeletal, shadows dancing from the light cast by a fire at either end of the open space. And it was teeming with skookin.
    There seemed to be hundreds of the creatures. She could see some of the musicians who were making that awful din—holding their instruments as though they’d never played them before. They were gathered in a semi-circle around a dais made from slabs of pavement and building rubble. Standing on it was the weirdest looking skoo-kin she’d seen yet. He was kind of withered and stood stiffly. His eyes flashed with a kind of dead, cold light. He had the grimmest look about him that she’d seen on any of them yet.
    There was no way her little bits of history were going to be enough to keep back this crew. She turned to look at her compan-ions. She couldn’t see Goon, but Meran was tugging her flute free from its carrying bag.
    What good was that going to do? Jilly wondered.
    “It’s another kind of truth,” Meran said as she brought the instru-ment up to her lips.
    The flute’s clear tones echoed breathily along the street, cutting through the jangle of not-music like a glass knife through muddy water. Jilly held her breath. The music was so beautiful. The skookin cowered where they stood. Their cacophonic noise-making fal-tered, then fell silent.
    No one moved.
    For long moments, there was just the clear sound of Meran’s flute, breathing a slow plaintive air that echoed and sang down the street, winding from one end of the park to the other.
    Another kind of truth, Jilly remembered Meran saying just before she began to play. That’s exactly what this music was, she realized. A kind of truth.
    The flute-playing finally came to an achingly sweet finale and a hush fell in Old City. And then there was movement. Goon stepped from behind Jilly and walked through the still crowd of skookin to the dais where their king stood. He clambered up over the rubble until he was beside the king. He pulled a large clasp knife from the pocket of his coat. As he opened the blade, the skookin king made a jerky motion to get away, but Goon’s knife hand moved too quickly.
    He slashed and cut.
    Now he’s bloody done it, Jilly thought as the skookin king tumbled to the stones. But then she realized that Goon hadn’t cut the king. He’d cut the air above the king. He’d cut the—her sudden realization only confused her more—strings holding him?
    “What ... ?” she said.
    “Come,” Meran said.
    She tucked her flute under her arm and led Jilly towards the dais. “This is your king,” Goon was saying.
    He reached down and pulled the limp form up by the fine-webbed strings that were attached to the king’s arms and shoulders. The king dangled loosely under his strong grip—a broken mario-nette. A murmur rose from the crowd of skookin—part ugly, part wondering.
    “The king is dead,” Goon said. “He’s been dead for moons. I wondered why Old City was closed to me this past half year, and now I know.”
    There was movement at the far end of the park—a fleeing figure. It had been the king’s councilor, Goon told Jilly and Meran later. Some of the skookin made to chase him, but Goon called them back.
    “Let him go,” he said.