Renere, 'to unspin, to undo, unravel what had been spun'

by Lise

V.
~

Now

*

I have to do laundry today.

I'm not ashamed to admit, I hate laundry. At home, I used to weasel out of it, at the Mansion, I used to trade with someone, anyone, to avoid it. The idea of pieces of ourselves, rubbed into the cloth, greasy remnants of living being the only mark we leave on our clothes. I hate it. And the soap makes me feel ill.

A pile of dark trousers, jeans, is the first thing to go in the ancient aluminum tub, and then a handful of bloody bandages. The water's as hot as I can get it, taken straight from the kettle on the fire and into the tub. Anything else will get the tinge of red in it, so I take my broom-handle, and I stir up these things for a while, scrubbing the pants against the corrugated edge of the washbasin as best I can without sticking my hands in.

Everyone bleeds at the Oasis, hundreds of minor wounds. Nate's bleeding all the time. Even though I don't want to do laundry, these have to be ready in case they're needed.

The bandages float around, lazy, in the water, red seeping out of them and into the rest of the wash. I don't know about disease, whether the water's hot enough and what I could be missing, what bacteria I'm killing and what I'm missing. I worry about HIV, even, because everyone here seems to be wounded and bleeding so often-- but the most common is simple infection. Nate's worried about gangrene, and other problems with dead tissue in old wounds that I don't really understand. Ilsa told me to make sure anyone with pains come to her.

Dead meat rotting in the body. I drag the bandages out, and hang them on the line to dry. Dump in a pile full of socks, and some shirts, swirl them around vigorously. The water steams, and I put the stick aside, holler at Sam to bring me another kettle. This is life, I think to myself.

He pours the boiling water in, and the colors, already faded beyond recognition, take on a slight pink tinge from the water from before.

~*~

Then

*

There were a lot of questions that I wanted to ask as the month rolled on. I failed a midterm, and then another. I skipped classes. Remy didn't call on me, because there was something hot afoot; something to do with either Genosha or mutant-rights or his thieves or terrorism. Something that didn't concern me.

I felt the urgent pressing of time, and the race against the clock. One day, sitting in the law library at school, surrounded by books I knew I'd never read, I came across a fragment of poetry that didn't have the hastily scrawled style of the rest of Irene's diaries. This seemed calm, thought out, not as urgent. I assumed it wasn't from a vision, and that probably made it more frightening than the slaughters she drew, the war crimes.

It was simple. Only a few lines:

'--and in the moment of hesitation
belief comes sluggishly
time racing gives the devil
room to maneuver well.'

It was enough.

I can remember them still. I remember all of Irene's words, like a photograph, but those are the only lines she ever wrote that didn't come from a vision; one of the only times she has ever communicated with me as a person, not a vessel for prophesy, not as an instrument of fate.

If the thought of anyone knowing I had this knowledge didn't terrify me, they'd be taught to the kids running around the Oasis-- all her journals would be taught. Even so, I made Franklin learn that stanza. Where she got it, I'm not sure-- maybe she wrote it herself. I told him it was from a book I used to have, didn't remember the author. He accepted it well enough.

We all accept things well enough when we have to.

More classes missed, and I had a pile of legal pads, scribbled out notes, and empty cups. Remy did as I asked, brought me histories from the X-men's files. I didn't hear from Logan but once, when he called to say that the Professor had gotten a report of someone asking questions about a few of the Twelve in Madripoor.

That should have been a big enough clue for me to know what was to come, but I didn't really want to admit it to myself. Irene's actions and thoughts were still a mystery to me, and I had no idea how to decode her personality; still, each and every sleepless night, it felt like I didn't have time.

~

Remy finally told me to quit school if I wanted to, and I didn't even try to argue with him. I couldn't find justification-- my only research was about saving the world. What was locked away in Irene's childhood had to be important, and I had to make sure it was used properly.

I thought less about why Destiny did the things she did, and focused on what she'd provided us with. It was hard sometimes to stay objective. Even out of the super hero life, there was no way to avoid feeling duty, an obligation, to show the team what I knew. But Irene's warning rang true: These things will come to pass. The more I learned, the more I believed in her.

And the more frightened I became.

See, Mystique had given me a lot of prophesies relating to world politics. Magneto's takeover of Genosha was labelled 'the science of attraction lines in island countries', and the poetry was stilted, barely readable. Raven herself had pages of diagrams, notes, and sketches detailing how Book Two was all of WWII-- which frightened me well enough. Irene drew the fall of Paris before 1940.

And all of that was interesting reading, yes, but it didn't have much impact on recent events. What it did do is give me a good idea of how Irene recorded things, what her mind went through in a flash. In some ways, I felt I could envision what she was seeing, through constant exposure. I saw myself thinking like her, in tune with her thought patterns. Ego, yes, but I became the stereotypical research student, so enthralled with my topic that I felt closer to it than I did real life.

I'd like to say it helped figure out the puzzle, but I'd be lying.

The images, they just became an itch under my skin, and I had to scratch. I had to find out why. But it was going to be impossible with only the volumes I had. The gaps in her records span years, centuries. A whole day might take up ten pages, but then no word for over five years. My guide to the future was incomplete.

But, even as time ran out for the world, it shoved me closer to the truth, as well. Blind luck, that's what you'd call it. Or, that's what Logan called it. And he would know.

~

The middle of February, Logan dropped by unnnounced, and brought a tale from Madripoor. The Professor wanted him to check on the whispers that someone was looking for information on the team, its members. Any rumor was worth investigating, and Logan had business to do anyway.

Really, things just seemed to work out the way they did so perfectly that I can't seem to imagine them being any other way.

He told me that, after a night of trailing some of his old gang, and no luck, he'd just about given up on finding what the Professor wanted. He figured, go do his business, and get back to New York. Simple enough. But when he walked into the discreet outer offices of the firm he'd come to see, he got a bit of a surprise.

"Landau, Luckman and Lake would like you to have this, Logan."

"What?"

"This." The receptionist handed him a book.

He sniffed it, and -- I don't know if I believe him, but he said it smelled Creed, and a bit of Reenie, and Raven, of course. "WHY?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. One of our clients set up a safety deposit box in your name, with the express instructions that you were to open it-- or we were, if you were not aware of its existence-- on this day."

He was more than surprised. It wasn't money. It wasn't magic. It wasn't even anything valuable. Just a cheap dimestore notebook, spiral-bound and full of ink from a fountain pen.

It wasn't until he brought it to me that he realized the 'one' on the back cover stood for volume one. And he wouldn't have the knowledge to know that the smell of Raven and Irene meant trouble. Or if he did -- and he should -- he forgot. Untill he brought it to me.

~

"I figured, this was up your alley, Kit."

"Logan. Where the hell--"

He grinned. "In a bank vault. A-- company, I deal with. One of their clients had it in a deposit box for me. Strange stuff."

I flipped through the pages, astonished. "This is-- I can't believe it. Where-- HOW-- could she have--"

He answered quietly, "Don't ask those kinda questions, darlin'. Ain't gonna get you anywhere, and there's work to be done, if I'm right." Wrinkled his nose. "The damned thing smells like them, too. And Creed."

I studied it, turning it over in my hands carefully. "It does?"

He looked away. "Yeah."

"Logan." He looked up. "How could they -- Raven or Irene -- know that you dealt with Landeau, Luckman and Lake? I mean, I know you do, and I don't even have the slightest idea what they do. Just the name. How could Irene have access to them?"

He puffed on a cigar, and I noticed frown lines around his eyes. He was tired. Or worried. "I dunno, Kit. Mystique's my guess. I haven't really thought about it." Lowered his eyes again, and his face was lost under the brim of his hat. "Didn't really want to think about it."

I knew the feeling well.

~

Some time passed, and I actually got into a routine. I helped out in the bakery downstairs for an hour or two every day. Mercy came by every day or so, for two weeks, and I fixed things for her that needed fixing. Time marched on.

Raven's books were meticulous and relatively complete; mostly, I took her word for it and began to research the others. Something bothered me about Book One, as well-- nothing seemed quite right about her wording. It had, premonitions, vague worry, more concrete imagery even if it was harder to decipher. It seemed like Irene grew into her role as visionary recorder, and thumbing through book one proved that she wasn't as comfortable or as used to the 'sight' as everyone remembers her as being.

The hand is shaky, as usual, and I traced her words with my index finger lightly. The first page says, 'Reenie's diary', and looks like any thirteen year old's book. I'm sure she hoped to write down her hopes and dreams in it. The next page actually says, "June sixth: Today I got a diary, and I'm going to--"

The next letter trails off the page, at which point the curly, childish printing turns into scratchy, squat letters, looping all over the page. I flipped through the first ten or fifteen, and they seem to be unbroken in their rhythm. It looks like she ended up having to write for almost an hour to get whatever she saw out of her head, letters canted every which way.

Poor child. I wonder if that first entry set off her powers. What a load to bear.

I still hate her, and I can't decide whether it's stronger than my empathy or not.

I kept reading, and scanned each page into my computer carefully before moving on. I didn't trust what was going to happen, and I sure as hell didn't want to run the risk of losing those. I must not have slept in two or three days, because the next thing I remembered was waking up sticky, in a puddle of coffee, head resting on page twenty seven. Shit. I got the journal wet.

And that's when I squinted, rubbed sleep out of my eyes, and tried to figure out why part of the page underneath me wasn't stained brown. In fact, it looks like little patterns of lines survived, possibly even... letters?

Words. Phrases.

I couldn't believe that the first ones I saw were, 'dance in a row, the children from atom, adam, bewayre. Atoms. Molecules. st francis xavier with your hat, undo the world'.

Undo the world.

Another warning about the the Professor, it had to be. That made over twenty. I remembered to breathe, and only then realize that I'd forgotten.

It didn't take long to scan the rest of the pages, and when I ran my fingers over them, I could feel the wax, just ready to give up what Irene wrote. I double checked my electronic back-ups of Book One three times; I double checked the hard copies that I printed out... and then I carefully dipped the page I'd spilled on in dark blue ink.

It was hard to remember to breathe again. I could see the clear outlines of the beginnings of a phrase, and it was unmistakable. It was her handwriting. It had to be.

~

The first page, blue save for dirty white waxy words, reads at the very top:
'book four-- what else can I do? There's no money for ink right now. The war. But mother can't take away my candles...'

Amazing. Irene Adler, you astound me.

After I finished conserving and coaxing the waxed-on words out of the pages, I started reading for real. A lot about the 'underground band', a lot about someone with the 'pale face of death'. It took Remy going white-faced at the sketch, and swearing quietly in French, for me to piece together that this might be details of the Mutant Massacre.

He asked me to stop reading. I skimmed through to make sure I wasn't missing anything, and then asked if he recognised what she was talking about.

He answered me, "Oui, chere. I know what Irene was on about, there."

I said, "And it's got nothing to do with what's going to happen."

"Non." He moved to the door. "I fuckin' hope not."

It was good enough. I did read the pages, and I did get the general gist of the contents, even if he asked me not to. But I didn't focus on them. Past dirt on the mysterious Cajun X-men was interesting. It wasn't immediately life-threatening.

I just kept going. That's what you do.

~

More of the routine, and I found it to be March before I knew it.

It was the week of Mardi Gras, and the whole spirit of the city was dancing. That's the only way I can describe it; like the whole population of New Orleans was tap-dancing. Remy promised to take me around, show me his Mardi Gras. I wasn't sure quite what to expect, but I knew it had to be fun.

We left my rooms above the bakery, and started walking around in the crowd. People and noise, everywhere, overwhelmed me quickly, and Remy resorted to hanging onto my arm tightly as we forced our way through the crowds. Layers upon layers upon layers of sounds came from all directions, like the beads that people threw out their windows and hung aroung their necks.

Remy bought me lunch, and we kept walking. I really, I wish I could remember more of that day, but it's all been overshadowed by what happened next.

All of a sudden, over top of all the noise and chatter, I could hear a thumping. Drum beats, or, music, or a heart beating far too loudly for any normal person, I wasn't sure. One blink, and Remy was gone, I was stuck in a crowd of strangers, drunk and festive and yelling their heads off. Confusion screamed through the streets, but slowly, the crowd's voices were absorbed by the thump, thump, of someone on drums.

I decided to try and figure out where it was coming from.

They blocked out all the other music and yelling, and I could hear and see the rest of the world as if underwater-- murky, muted. I turned a corner, and then another, peering into the faces of everyone I passed, thinking at any minute I'd see someone with Mystique's particular quirky smile, or worse-- a blind woman with white hair that looked like Irene.

When I finally stopped, the sight that stared back at me wasn't either of those things. It was an old, black woman sitting on a bench, wrapped in blankets and skirts, broad shoulders and Adam's apple betraying her real gender as male. Her fat cheeks looked like they should have been smiling, jolly-- but they weren't. I didn't quite know what to make of her, and so I stood there, feet planted on the pavement, crushing two strings of beads.

The drumming stopped, and suddenly, the streets were quiet.

I approached cautiously, not knowing what was going on. She stared up at me, eyes piercing, black, and sightless behind huge sunglasses. "What c'n I do f'y', chile?"

"I-- don't know. I thought, --there was music?"

I was confused. I was sure that the beat had been coming from this way, but in the melee, maybe I was wrong, maybe I'd lost it. She shook a finger at me, gaunt digits looking like the talons of a great bird. "Chile, dere always be music."

I frowned. "I-- should I recognise you?"

She grinned, false eyelashes bobbing coyly. "Honey, y'might. Mercy knows wha'I been. An'de boy, he ain' come t'visit in a while."

Her adam's apple bobbed as she swallowed, and her shawl opened a little bit to reveal a garish gold dress underneath. A voodoo drag queen. Of course. I said, "Guild?"

Her brows furrowed again, and she shook her finger at me again, hard enough to jangle her bracelets and rings. "Shh! Y'don' say dat word 'less y'know who y'talkin' to."

I got nervous. "You're not, then."

She shook her head. "Non. Shaman."

I sat next to her on the bench, and she crossed her legs. When I finally got a good look at her face, I noticed that she had to be at least seventy. I asked, "But you know Remy?"

She fumbled with her shawl, pulled it around herself. A couple of boys ran up to her bench, jeering about old men in dresses, and she shooed them off with a kick and the shake of her rattle. Then, she said, "I've known Remy, oui."

"So, were you the one--"

"Oui, chile'. Dat was me wit' th' music."

I stirred. "Why?"

She reached over, and pulled out a package wrapped up in dull brown paper. "Because o'dis, honey. But first, lemme read y'palm."

I eyed the thing suspiciously, deep in my heart afraid. "Why?"

"What will it hurt?" She nodded, and grabbed my hand, yanking it towards her eyes. Then, she pulled off her dark glasses, and I saw what was behind them for the first time; she had to be blind.

She stared at my hand intently with those milky white eyes. "She was right 'bout you, chile'."

My fear grew. "Who?"

Instead of answering, she said brightly, "Y'have a very long lifeline, y'know." She leaned down to whisper in my ear. I could smell the bourbon on her breath, and something like green herbs. "She knew y'd survive, girl."

I pulled away, heart hammering. "Who?"

She leaned back too, complacant, and dropped the package into my lap. Then she picked up her rattle and started to sing in French, something harsh and unyielding, screeching falsetto.

I stood up quickly, and almost backed into Remy. He asked, "What's wrong, chere?"

Too shaken up to even wonder how he'd found me so quickly with all those turns I took, I thrust what she'd given me into his hands, and leaned into her face. "What's your name."

"Mam'selle Chance, chile."

"And who knew that I'd survive?"

She stared right through both of us, white eyes glowing opals -- cackling, "Who else, ma chaton d'ombre?"

I could hear the other sounds of the carnival again, suddenly, and blinked rapidly. She was already shuffling away in the crowd, singing crazily and at the top of her lungs. I moved to follow her, but Remy grabbed my arm. "Regarde."

He held in Irene's tenth journal in one hand, and a wad of discarded, brown wrapping paper in another.

I thought to myself, I must be going out of my mind.

Now, I think I wish that had been true. If I had, that would mean that all the tombstones were false records, all the bodies just in my head.

~

When Remy came to me, carrying the eleventh volume--the last of my collection-- he said softly, "That's it, chere. I'm done, Kit."

His eyes were grim.

I was in my apartment, and he'd just come back from a job, because he still had his armor on. Thief job or X-men job, I couldn't tell the difference. Irene had told me all I needed to know about the Thieves Guild-- ancient, proud, and inherently important to the survival of the mutant species. How and why, I still don't know. Perhaps in one reality, they will be the ones to take mutants into the promised land.

His head was bandaged up, and I'd swear he was favoring his left leg, too.

He stared at me, leaned against the counter, and then produced from out of his satchel a leather book-- a style that I'd come to know well. "Tell me it's volume thirteen?"

I took it from him. "Non, number eleven."

I sighed. He stared at me again, lips drawn into a thin line, and eyes redder, more firey than normal. I felt a little afraid for myself-- if I had to take Gambit on, I knew I could... but I didn't want to. What could I have done to earn his anger? "What's wrong?"

He pushed himself off the counter, and sat down on the couch, whole frame sagging. "What's wrong?" He chuckled. "Two t'ieves died today. Zoe and Emil."

My eyes widened. "How?"

He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. "We were bein' chased-- no problems, normal uniforms-- through a warehouse, an' then... th'building fell apart under our feet." He shook his head, obviously in some shock. "Th'only reason Claude, Mercy and I managed t'get out was Bel had her men helpin' us. They-- weren't in time for Zoe and Emil."

I put a hand on his back, rubbed it slowly. "I'm so sorry, Remy."

He pulled away from me, and glared. "Y'don't understand, Kit! Th'book-- it was in th'foundations of the buildin'! Right in plain view-- once it collapsed on my Guild." He shook his head again, almost as if he couldn't believe what had happened. "Irene Adler was a cruel woman, Kate."

I couldn't find anything to say-- in some ways, I had become like Irene; too grateful that we'd found another volume to care that two people were dead. Two people that had taken a liking to me, as well, the few times we'd met, and I to them... how could I have changed so much?

He didn't ask me whether Irene had told me about the collapse, about Zoe and Emil-- I was grateful for that, because she might have, in a roundabout way that I'd understand only in hindsight. And-- if I had known, would I have told him, and passed up the chance to get my hands on another book?

To take my mind off that, I offered Remy some tea. After a minute, he nodded at me, and I put the kettle on to boil. The simple task of teabags, sugar, milk, made me forget the work spread out all over my desk in the corner. I said finally, "I'm sorry, Remy."

He took the cup from me gratefully, and said, "I know y'are, Kate." His eyes hardened, over the porcelain. "But if I ever get a chance t'go back in time again, I'm gonna find Destiny, an' wring her neck."

I didn't say anything; I knew that my eagerness to read the book made me just as much to blame as Irene... just like always.

We talked a little. I told him what I'd found out; not much since the last time I saw him. Eventually, I stood up from the kitchen table, and showed him out.

The next time I saw him, we were in the desert.

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