Concerning the Alley

The street was a gypsy highway long ago abandoned, and with it the traces, memorials and discard of those who had gone before. A wheel-less broken pram lay like a half-buried galleon amid the wreckage of discarded clothes, appliances, and what seemed a shipwreck of a century of travelers' waste. One of the major arcana floated by on a stream. A bright colored scarf drifted from a rusted, mottled water-pipe leaning out from moldered bricks, and as Tupelo approached a covey of young gutter punks scattered out into the open light, boots splashing through puddles of tipsy street. No doubt they had been spooked by the passage of the Ragamuffin King.
Edge lit by red train light he saw the ghost of an oil-cloth sail silhouette briefly across the lot, followed it through the amber lights of the yard. Lush vegetation, ivy, flower boxes and gardens become wild things dangled over the ledges, crawled along the bricks, sought life in puddles and spaces of city. Time was abandoned, recalcitrant, sneaked off into pockets here. Smells of spices, actinic urine, body smell.
The alley was bitterly dark, and Tupelo saw, glowing faintly in white chalk as he entered, Kitty Rollins' mark. Then it opened into a courtyard forgotten by the world around. Tupelo couldn't even hear cars, people, or signs of life other than a pigeon gliding overhead to the towering, derelict theater house.

Concerning a Brick Thrown By a King

When the Fop was felled with a brick there was only a sound like dropped pottery and woman's scream. Tupelo saw the Fop sprawled on the ground like a soulless puppet, a chunk of old red brick next to his head, a brick thrown by a King. Where the King was he didn't know, but the King it had to be. Ambling Henry had abandoned his newsprint bench to support the Silver Lady, using his crushed tweed hat to fan the Fop. Tupelo ran back to help roll him off the path into the safety of the bushes.

Henry escorted the Silver Lady from the park, Tupelo fled to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. They always let you stay in the sanctuary of a church, if you sat in the back and didn't smell too bad. Sometimes you could even get fed, on Saturdays when the elderly parish ladies served gallons of canned clam chowder to the poor and down-trodden who sought shelter within its halls.
The church was on the Street of Friars, part of the old town, if you could designate such a thing in this city; a long, undulating cobblestone stretch lined by dark brick buildings crowded with noisy families, hanging laundry and xenophobic businesses. Runoff water trickled down the street ceaselessly, carrying the occasional take-out box and lifeless plush animal. Tupelo shambled his way past stalls and steam clouds smelling of shrimp and andouille, trying to stay on the edges but away from the shadows. He had the skeleton in the vial on a shoestring around his neck, but nursed doubts. And he had secretly left his best seahorse with the Silver Lady, just in case.
He wasn't afraid of the Ragamuffin King; he had no need to be. One couldn't be too careful these days. It could be an odd world, full of beautifully dangerous people.
He ascended the church's stone steps, glistening and reflecting back the street below -- an image, a world forever trapped between the darkness and humanity below, and the light, warmth and sanctuary above. At the great red doors to the vestibule he turned to take in the street behind him: wet, contumelious, a blinking muddy trolley rattling its way down the rail and brick path like a giant subterranean creature ambling its way to earth. Tupelo saw what looked like the Silver Lady cross the street, ducking behind the trolley and slipping into the steamy throat of an alley.
And like a curtain moved aside the trolley rolled on, its clanging bell revealing the Ragamuffin King standing in front of a well lit red awning kiosk, fingerless gloves clutching something in wax paper. Tupelo watched him bring a wad of it to his mouth, then follow into the steam alley behind the Silver Lady.
For reasons he would not be able to articulate, Tupelo found himself dancing down the steps, across black cobblestones, and, because he was not stupid, entering the veil of smoke slowly and cautiously.

Concerning a Stroll in the Park

The best place to find the Fop at this hour would be the park. The Silver Lady would have risen from her afternoon slumber and be ready to observe her subjects on a constitutional. The sky was darkening bruise as Tupelo came to the square, munching on half a hero he had found in a receptacle at the entrance. Lamplights were beginning to flutter shadows on wet green leaves and ripple colours on the fountain statue.
Rumor held the Fop was edging to expand his territory by a liaison with the Silver Lady, but Tupelo was always shy to put stock in rumors. He couldn't imagine the Fop having the energy for ambition really. Still, everyone knew the Lady had secrets anyone would covet, and the question remained of the bag of zombie powder. Unconsciously Tupelo touched the protection charm he'd drawn earlier with a half-dry Sharpie marker. He would not even wager on what the Ragamuffin King was after -- he was a crafty angel fallen with a bag of magic tricks.
He caught sight of the Fop and the Silver Lady ahead by the pond, watching a living statue dressed as Charlie Chaplin. A group of schoolboys ran past, pausing long enough to throw peanuts and jeers and then off. Tupelo watched intently for a moment, trying to spot the Ragamuffin King. He saw Ambling Henry in the distance trying to score a bench for the night, but no King. The park was technically the King's domain. He could be anywhere.

Tupelo had already traded the tape recorder for a crushed half-pack of cigarettes and a broken watch. The watch and a rusted crescent wrench later would bring him a handful of TV transistors and a battered blues harp with the bottom three notes irredeemably clogged. He also acquired a small skeleton carving in a vial.
Fist wrapped around this, he shuffled over to the pond. The Fop and the Lady were strolling slowly, followed from the water by a cadre of ducks cawing softly and without emotion.
"Ta," the Fop said as he approached. The Silver Lady nodded a him slightly. "M'Lady," Tupelo mumbled, averting his eyes.
"Any further news of the King?" the Fop asked airily. "He has not bothered to contact this personage with grievances."
"Kitty Rollins is, um, dead," Tupelo answered. The Silver Lady made a sound and put a pale gloved hand to her mouth.
"Who told you this?" the Fop demanded sharply. "Answer me truthfully, or it shall go ill with you."
"The Ragamuffin King, in the Horseman's land."
"He has no sense of dominion," the Fop dismissed with a toss of a slender hand. They continued walking. "What else did he tell you?"
"Um, he said to tell you not to dig what someone else wants. And that, um, her holdings pass to the Silver Lady."
"Why were YOU in the Horseman's domain, Tupelo? Does no service your atypical timidity."
"shadowman," Tupelo muttered almost inaudibly.
"I see. And what may I trust his response to be?"
They were passing in sight of the fountain again, the ducks tiring of their leisurely pace and seeking entertainment from the schoolboys and their peanuts. Tupelo thought he saw a shadow move, but he couldn't be sure. It could have been the lights dancing Cupid's silhouette on the hedge.
Tupelo fingered the vial when he spoke, and his voice sounded as strong as the Shadow Man, if just for a sentence. "It's not about her holding but her power. It will pass on to the next, or whoever has her spirit."
The Fop blanched, but only for a moment. "Fear not madam, and fear not young Tupelo." His voice quickly regained its regal scorn. "I shall let no brigand of the night do harm to your virtuous person." He narrowed his eyes at Tupelo, who felt the need to squirm. "If you see the King of Ragamuffins, pass him my regards. His nightmares and threats fail to scare me. Now begone."
Tupelo bowed to the Lady and dutifully tottered off, pausing briefly at a storm drain to inspect what would turn out to be a losing lottery ticket fluttering forlornly. He sat at the fountain, streams and falls raining symphony spattering wet concrete, Cupid and Psyche, forever locked in embrace, held company by the occasional transient pigeon. Tupelo took out the blues harp and tried to blow a few experimental notes.

Concerning a Questionable Trade

The Shadow Man was tall, thin and very black. He wore a broken beaver fedora that might once have been grey and a collage of jackets, torn shirts and blankets. He had a small fire and a scattering of sputtering candles when Tupelo arrived, sliding down the muddy embankment.
"Mr. Tupelo," the Shadow Man said in a deep whiskey rasp, and in his voice Tupelo could hear the cry of distant trains and forgotten kingdoms. "We did have a bargain tonight."
Tupelo sat down across the fire and passed over a very dead pigeon and a half bottle of Admiral Nelson. "Kitty Rollins is dead," he said. "The King just told me, said to tell you."
The Shadow Man raised one hairless eyebrow. "Interesting. She has lived long time. Now, her power passes on." He handed Tupelo a cassette Walkman with great ceremony from the mound of junk behind him.
"The Silver Lady?"
"Yes," the Shadow Man said thoughtfully, as he cut off the pigeon's head with a rusted steak knife. "Or another, if they find her spirit first."

Concerning a Random Encounter

Tupelo was supposed to meet the Shadow Man about a trade. If he was lucky, a cup of coffee also could be found in one of the shelters down by the vista.
The Shadow Man set shop beneath the stone bridge by the river, in the Horseman's territory. Tupelo didn't like to be there after dark. He picked his way through a narrow sliver between buildings strewn with rain soaked trash and feral cats. Cars moved by in the distance, a fleeting rush of movement and wet tires. He suspiciously eyed a heap by a dumpster, and determined it wasn't worth it.
Suddenly Tupelo turned, and there was the Ragamuffin King standing at the alley's mouth like a shadow of a rowan tree, imprinted over glistening black puddles by the flickering pole lamp. Tupelo jumped.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," the King intoned. His hands were shoved into the oiled-canvas coat. "Tell that rake her territory passes to the Lady. He should mind himself before he digs up something wanted by someone else."
Tupelo didn't answer, but fairly fled across the wet flagstones, coat tails flapping.
"Pass the news to the Shadow Man!" the King yelled after him, and then he slipped off into the oncoming night.