The Code

It had been two weeks since Music Night at the Harp but I was still pissed off, and not because Bridget had puked all over my jeans. Shakti suspected Davey of dealing drugs from the pub and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The creepy balding man in his office? The so-called bouncer who’d watched us leave? Straight out of central casting. Plus, on my first visit, a woman stumbled in half-psychotic off the street and on my second, I had a full-on hallucination in the upstairs bathroom. Not that I was averse to such things. Just, it had to be my idea. Now I wondered if someone had spiked my coffee - strike one. Strike two was Davey’s use of Shakti as an unwitting delivery girl. Strike three? I wasn’t sure yet, which was why instead of working in the studio at seven p.m. on a Thursday night, I was striding down South Street to tell Davey what I thought of his little racket and return his stupid spoon.

Except, late October was my second-favorite time of year (midwinter being the first) with its shift in mood and its creeping darkness, and when I got near the river, the braided perfumes of water and silt conspire with the chill to steal my fire. And even though I got some of it back once I hit the ever-present wall of mist beyond Hendricks, as soon as the gold harp materialized through the fog, regret stole through me. The feeling surprised me. But Shakti’s talk of frequency a few weeks back had validated my belief that there was more to the world than what I’d been told. I’d taken heat for this sort of thinking because I’d never been able to explain it. But Shakti had, so to discover that the Harp might be just another bucket-of-blood felt like a betrayal.

The stink of burnt wood hit me the moment I walked in, a reek of mildew lingering beneath it. My gaze went to the window by the table closest to the back. A huge chunk had been gouged out of the wood, bits of char still visible around the edges. I stared until the clink of glass drew my attention away.

“Look who’s here on a school night, then.” Davey grinned at me from behind the bar.

I strode past an elderly couple eating soup and slid onto a stool. “We need to talk.”

Davey wrestled down his grin. “Can I get you something first?”

“Only something I can watch you pour.”

One blond eyebrow went up “This sounds serious.”

I lowered my voice. “Drugs are serious. I know everyone does them, but -”

“What are you on about?” he said.

“That shifty dude in your office. And you bouncer watching us leave. Plus, that woman who stumbled in here high as a kite -”

“You mean Bo?” He barked a laugh and reached for a glass.

“It’s not funny. That day you weren’t here, someone spiked my coffee.”

He paused in the middle of a pulling me a soda. “You have proof?”

“Only that half an hour after I drank a cup of your French Roast, I started hallucinating in the upstairs bathroom.”

Eyes fixed on my face, Davey tilted his head and called for Janet. When she stepped from the kitchen, he said, “mind the front,” and led me past her to his office.

The room was paneled in warm dark wood, yet I felt a chill as I slid into the chair the balding man had used. It occurred to me that I might be poking a bear but it was too late to bolt now. Besides, something visceral in me clamored to know the truth about this place. I slid a shaking hand into my pocket and jammed my fingers against the silver spoon.

Davey sat across the desk from me and poured two fingers of something dark, then wagged the bottle at me. When I shook my head, he corked it and leaned back. “Now, then. Dealing?”

I took a breath. “There’s the stuff I already mentioned, but when we left after the music, Shakti told me about her part-time gig. She said she dropped a takeout container and saw a packet taped to the inside lid.”

“And did she open this packet?” Davey said.

“No. She was afraid.”

“So she made an assumption.”

“Okay, yes,” I said, “but you have to admit it looked iffy.”

“Iffy. Interesting word.” Davey drained his glass, then unlocked a drawer and took out a leather-bound notebook. “Let’s see,” he said, leafing through the pages, “two weeks ago Fridee? That might’ve been…yes, yes. Here it is. My note to Charlie Thomson.” He looked up. “Want to hear?”

“Um, no, I mean -”

“‘11/3, 1300/hr, meet B, J & W at S2 re; map’”

“That could mean anything,” I said.

“Precisely.”

“Okay, fine. But what about Bo? And my coffee?”

He closed the journal and rested a hand on the cover. “Bo’s tale isn’t mine to tell. As for the bathroom, Bridget should never have sent you up there? But since she did, care to tell me what you saw?”

Yes. Good. Once he heard, he’d have to take me seriously. Maybe he’d even tell me what they’d given me. Because unlike other hallucinations that dissipated with time, the one in the mirror had burrowed into my bones. “I saw an old woman sitting at a desk, writing.”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “That mirror comes from a castle in Leith. No one knows how old it is, but it reflects things that have been or are yet to be. Veritas filia temporis. Truth is the daughter of time.”

Jesus. He wouldn’t quit. I blew air through my nose. “Are you trying to tell me that was me?”

“What does your gut say?”

“That you’re full of green Irish shit. It also says that the guy in your office was up to something.”

“Benny? Oh, that he was.”

“So, you admit it?”

“Yes, but only because you found your way here, which only a certain type of person manages to do.”

“And what type of person is that?”

“One who might be inclined to support our endeavors.”

My anger flared, but it was laced with disappointment. This wasn’t Shakti’s frequency theory at play. “I’m not supporting anything.”

Davey shrugged. “The spoon says otherwise.. Although you always have a choice.”

“Really? Then, here.” I took the spoon from my pocket and slapped down between us. “I choose not to be part of your crime ring.”

Davey threw back his head and laughed. “Are we back to drugs? Because I’d be stunned to hear that you don’t partake from time to time.”

My face burned. “I dabble. But there’s a line I won’t cross.”

“That’s grand, then, because I’m not dealing in substances. I’m seeking to resurrect an ancient Code and right a very old wrong.”

His blue eyes took on a shine from across the desk that made my skin prickle. Humor him, I told myself. He’s bat-shit. I willed my heart to settle. “What code, Davey? And what old wrong are we talking about? Because it all sounds pretty vague.”

He sat back and folded his arms. “You’ll have heard about the frog in the pot of water? That the frog barely notices that the heat’s been turned up?”

“Until it boils him alive? Yeah. Everyone knows about that.”

“And yet…well, I cannot tell you more whilst you remain so defensive.”

I felt a hot stab of indignation. “You expect me to agree with something without even knowing what it is?”

“I expect you to listen to your heart, not your very busy head. The mirror showed you a vision and you rejected it as fantasy. Now, you display a lack of courtesy by returning a gift.” He dropped his gaze to the spoon. “It sensed something in you that you have yet to discover about yourself. Or should I say remember. Something that suggests you might have a part to play in events about to unfold.”

I felt my grip on logic slipping sideway. I rubbed my face and met his gaze. “Okay, I’ll bite. What events, Davey? And what effing code?”

The shine in his eyes became a blue fire. My head buzzed and his voice filled my ears. Old ways. Old gods. Valor. Courage. A code that honors life. I surged upright, gripping the armrests, and released guff of air. He was watching me, his eyes back to their normal sky blue. This time when he gestured to the bottle, I nodded. The liquid spread though me like smoke. Seconds ticked from a clock on the wall but it was minutes before I spoke. “What did you just do to me?”

“Nothing you didn’t allow.” He softened his voice. “There’s a part of you that hasn’t been put all the way to sleep.”

My indignation reared again but now I saw it for what it was. A shield. A wall. Protection for the little girl who hadn’t stopped believing her own eyes. The child who could fly in her dreams and feel the earth breathing. “Tell me about the fire in the bar.”

Davey poured me another finger of liquor. “Bridget, playing with matches.”

“She’s trouble,” I said, embracing what felt like a tacit agreement to move on.

“Aye, she can be. But she’s also a wonder. She has a tale, too, that one.”

“But it’s not yours to tell., right?”

He smiled. “You catch on quickly.”

I picked up my glass and swirled the dark liquid. The fumes sent me back into that liminal space he’d put me in with his words. I saw grass, a tree with flowers and thorns, a curved stone wall. I shook my head and tossed back the drink. My chest expanded. Or was it my heart? “Nothing is what it seems around here, is it? Either that or I’m going crazy.”

“Or going sane,” Davey said, “ which sometimes feels the same way.”