Something moved.
“Hello?”
His eyes were learning to use what little light there was, and he could make something out. It’s nothing. Rags and feathers, that’s all. Another step, and the wind stirred the feathers and flapped the rags on the floor of the cave.
Something fluttered about him, fluttered through him, beating the air with the clatter of a pigeon’s wings.
Swirling. Dust stung his
eyes and his face, and he blinked in the cold wind and took a step back as it rose up before him, a storm of dust and rags and feathers. Then the wind was gone, and where the feathers had been blowing was a human figure, which reached out a hand and beckoned to Fat Charlie.
He would have stepped back, but it reached out and took him by the sleeve. Its touch was light and dry, and it pulled him toward it…
He took one step forward into the cave—
—and was standing in the open air, on a treeless, copper-colored plain, beneath a sky the color of sour milk.
Different creatures have different eyes. Human eyes (unlike, say, a cat’s eyes, or an octopus’s) are only made to see one version of reality at a time. Fat Charlie saw one thing with his eyes, and he saw something else with his mind, and in the gulf between the two things, madness waited. He could feel a wild panic welling up inside him, and he took a deep breath and held it in while his heart thudded against his rib cage. He forced himself to believe his eyes, not his mind.
So while he knew that he was seeing a bird, mad-eyed, ragged-feathered, bigger than any eagle, taller than an ostrich, its beak the cruel tearing weapon of a raptor, its feathers the color of slate overlaid with an oil slick sheen, making a dark rainbow of purples and greens, he really only knew that for an instant, somewhere in the very back of his mind. What he saw with his eyes was a woman with raven-black hair, standing where the idea of a bird had been. She was neither young nor old, and she stared at him with a face that might have been carved from obsidian in ancient times, when the world was young.
She watched him, and she did not move. Clouds roiled across the sour milk sky.
“I’m Charlie,” said Fat Charlie. “Charlie Nancy. Some people, well, most people, call me Fat Charlie. You can, too. If you like.”
No response.
“Anansi was my father.”
Still nothing. Not a quiver; not a breath.
“I want you to help me make my brother go away.”
She tilted her head at this. Enough to show that she was listening, enough to show that she was alive.
“I can’t do it on my own. He’s got magic powers and stuff. I spoke to a spider, and the next thing you know, my brother turns up. Now I can’t make him go away.”
Her voice, when she spoke, was as rough and as deep as a crow’s. “What do you wish me to do about it?”
“Help me?” he suggested.
She appeared to be thinking.
Later, Fat Charlie tried and failed to remember what she had been wearing. Sometimes he thought it must have been a cloak of feathers; at other times he believed it must have been rags of some kind, or perhaps a tattered raincoat, of the kind she wore when he saw her in Piccadilly, later, when it had all started to go bad. She was not naked, though: of that he was nearly certain. He would have remembered if she had been naked, wouldn’t he?
“Help you,” she echoed.
“Help me get rid of him.”
She nodded. “You wish me to help you get rid of Anansi’s bloodline.”
“I just want him to go away and leave me alone. I don’t want you to hurt him or anything.”
“Then promise me Anansi’s bloodline for my own.”
Fat Charlie stood on the vast coppery plain, which was somehow, he knew, inside the cave in the mountains at the end of the world and was, in its turn, in some sense, inside Mrs. Dunwiddy’s violet-scented front room, and he tried to make sense of what she was asking for.
“I can’t give things away. And I can’t make promises.”