21
“Eighth Street Mission,” proclaimed the sign. The faded and chipped letters had seen better days, as had the battered and scarred brick building they named. All the lower windows were sealed with opaque construction plastic behind the rusted, bent, and now obviously useless bars that once protected them. Grafitti in sufficient layers to suggest generations of down-Sprawl artists made a riotous skirt around the sedate centenarian structure. One symbol on the wall along the stairs to the main entrance was bold, as though set apart from the other scribblings. Sam had never seen the thistle in a ring design, but he guessed that the emblem proclaimed the building under the protection of the local street gang.
The mission was of a piece with its surroundings. Though much of Portland had been rebuilt, this section was still mostly pre-Awakening. It was only one of the slums that clung to the edges of the revitalized center where neo-Elven architecture, with its graceful curves, eccentric designs, and environmentally integrated architecture, dominated a skyline that would have seemed alien to men of the previous century. Even to Sam, the Elven-style buildings seemed uncomfortably different from either the clean-lined edifices or the retrofitted make-dos of the great urban Sprawls. The shapes and outlines chosen by the Elven architects seemed to proclaim the glories of the Sixth World and to revel in the restoration of magic on Earth. Sam had been relieved when he and Dodger finally crossed into the older parts of Portland and the Elven spires were hidden from view. Despite having grown up in safe corporate enclaves, the littered streets and gloomy Sprawl made him feel more at home.
Dodger led the way up the steps to the mission and into the large room that took up more than half the entry level. The open door and dirty windows let in barely enough of the mid-morning light to alleviate the darkness. Scattered bulbs burned feebly in a pathetic attempt to compensate, while the stench of despairing and broken humanity was strong. Inheritors of the miasma were scattered about the chamber, many slumped or curled in fitful sleep. Some sat silently on the rooms mismatched, battered furniture while others chattered in a steady stream, whether or not anyone was listening. The aged and the ageless in their filth partook of the mission’s charity alongside dissipated youth and ragged homeless. The mission’s occupants were a dirty and smelly lot, but only those obviously in the last stages of chip addiction looked malnourished. Moving solicitously among these refugees from the streets was a broad man in a dark suit. His shirtfront shone with the stark white of a Roman collar, marking him as a priest.
“Father Lawrence.”
The priest turned at the sound of his name. His face was wide, in keeping with his frame. His forehead was marred by a large wart, but overall his features were pleasant if somewhat coarse. In the dim light, he seemed to have a faint gray pallor. Only when he smiled did Sam see the enlarged lower canines that revealed the priest as an Ork. A mild expression of the Ork gene complex, perhaps, but definite.
“Dodger,” the priest exclaimed with evident pleasure as he recognized the Elf. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Verily, Father, that is good news. For if you did not know, then no one did.”
The priest laughed heartily. “You overrate me as usual. Still, I shall have to speak to a few people.”
“Not too harshly, I trust.”
“No. No. But one must always be aware of the way the wind blows. Respar sallah tishay a imar makkanagee-ha. Eh?”
Dodger cocked his head and gave the priest an admonitory look. “Few of your patrons speak Sperethiel. What have you been up to?”
“God’s work, as always.” Father Lawrence said, waving his hand to encompass the mission.
“God still allows you leeway to deal with criminals, then?”
“Criminals, citizens, nobles, even paladins and shadow-runners are His children.” Though his words were pedantic, the priest’s voice held firm and honest conviction. “It is to the sinner that we must open our hearts, for where is the merit in loving those who stand high in His favor while spuming those who need aid? God ever favors just causes.”
“As is this man’s, Father. We come as suppliants in need of a bed and rest. You can call my friend”-Dodger paused for a thoughtful moment, then his face lit mischievously as inspiration struck-“Twist.”
The Priest looked Sam over, his eyes taking in the details of Sam s attitude and appearance and evaluating them in an instant. Whatever conclusions he reached were concealed behind his ready grin. Father Lawrence reached out and shook Sam’s hand vigorously. “Welcome to the mission, Twist. Any friend of Dodger has a place here.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Yes.” Sam felt compelled to add, “But I’m not Catholic, Father.”
“That can be remedied with good will and faith, but you won’t find me pushy about it. All who observe the rules and peace of this house are welcome here. The good Lord provides as He will. Of course, He understands that we each give according to our ability.”
Responding to Father Lawrence’s expectant look, Dodger said, “Alas, Father, our current enterprise partakes more of just desserts than just distribution.”
“I have never had cause to fault your generosity, Dodger. I will trust in an eventual donation, while praying for your success.” If their welcome was less, the priest showed no sign of it. “You know your way around, Dodger, and there are those here who need my attention more immediately. I’ll trust you to take care of yourself and your friend.”
Dodger led Sam through the room and into the kitchen where two pots were beginning to bubble, overlaying the scent of antiseptic and the pervasive animal-pen smell with the fresh odor of soup. They took a creaking stairway down into the basement. By the time they reached the bottom, musty dampness had wrested control of Sam’s olfactory perceptions.
Weaving a path through dusty. mildewed piles of Lord knew what, Dodger moved unerringly in the darkness. Only by staying close enough to catch the faint gleam of the Elf’s studded leathers could Sam be assured of not losing his guide. When Dodger stopped, Sam nearly walked into him. A moment later, he felt a whuff of fresh air as the Elf led him forward into a deeper darkness. A slight scraping noise heralded the end of the basement’s odiferous confines as the chamber’s concealed door closed behind them.
Soft red light burst forth. In its glow, Sam could see Dodger leave the switch he had thrown and cross the room to toss himself down on a bed that creaked in protest at his weight.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
Sam looked around. There was not much more than a counter and a couple of cabinets besides the bed that the Elf had commandeered. In one dim corner, he spotted an old folding chair. He retrieved the rickety chair and sat down on it backward, folding his arms across the back rest. “What now?”