"Hey, Karma," Rhonda the sword whined, "I need to go, like, shopping."
She hung from the wall of my small home in what used to be suburban Palo Alto. Being far away didn't help. I could hear her just as clearly as if I'd held her in my hand with her voice coming out the end of the hilt. I'd tried hanging her from my waist at first, but she just yelled loud enough for everyone to hear. Now, I carry her over my shoulder so she talks in my ear.
I hadn't responded, so she yelled. "Are you listening?"
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," I replied.
Two weeks ago, I bought the sword at the city's disincorporation sale. It was a fine sword, made of good strong steel that could take a beating. At the time, it seemed like a good deal.
For days afterward, my dreams ended in, "Help me, Rhonda!"
One morning, I started singing the old Beach Boys tune.
"I thought no one would ever listen to me!" Rhonda said.
She hasn't left me alone since.
"And you so need me, too. You're a mess! Look at that eyebrow. Don't you ever pluck?"
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. So it had a little hair. Big deal.
"Karma," the sword interrupted with all the charm of a spoiled teenager.
"What!"
"I need to go shopping."
"What did I tell you last time you asked to go shopping?"
"I know there's a mall in Palo Alto, Karma. I want more moisturizer. You promised. I laid that guy open for you, and you said you'd get me some so I wouldn't get all rusty."
"I said I wouldn't let you get rusty. You're not. I've fulfilled my promise. Besides, Crisco will keep you from getting rusty. You don't need moisturizer."
"Crisco! That's disgusting. I'd never put that stuff in me when I was alive. It's just grody. Don't you dare wipe it on me."
"I was teasing you. You know I use mineral oil."
Rhonda sniffed. "Disembowelling a hunk like that? It's totally awful. I deserve a reward. A token. Something to keep me from getting all wrinkled."
I chuckled at the thought. What, was she going to turn into a Damascus blade? Right. "Okay, okay, we'll go if it makes you feel better." I had a million things to do, but at least she'd leave me alone. I hoped.
The living room held a shelf of books, a few knickknacks and not much personality. It was so small that I had to keep the surfboard in the attic. I pulled Rhonda's scabbard off the wall and slung it across my back. Then I pulled the poncho off the wall.
"Not the singing," Rhonda said. "Can't we use the surfboard?"
"You're the one who wants to go to the mall, and I'm not walkin', nor am I spending the day at the beach. So you'd better sing with me, because if we don't sing, the poncho's not going anywhere."
"Whatever." I envisioned her flipping her shoulder-length blonde hair.
I laid out the poncho and stood on it. Leaning forward, the scabbard thwapped my kidneys. I stood up straight.
"I have a little Spanish flea," I sang. Rhonda joined in after the first word. The orchestral accompaniment, the original Herb Alpert, emanated softly from the carpet, helping us keep rhythm and pitch.
I hated that I couldn't afford a better ride, like one of the magic carpets or the cheapo magic surfboards so common in Silicon Valley these days. Just a poncho with a love for old Herb Alpert tunes, sold for a song because someone couldn't stand driving to the same tunes all the time. I had a surfboard, a vintage wooden Johnny Rice, but it insisted on going surfing whenever I used it. So, unless I wanted to spend all day out, I used the poncho instead.
As the music continued, the poncho started bouncing. "It holds a little stuff and me." It hovered and glided jauntily out the door, smoothing out when we sang in harmony.
We swooped upward. Rhonda whooped, which made the poncho falter. I sang louder, and it recovered before we dove to the ground.
We flew over burned-out houses and collapsed garages, singing like idiots to that old tune. Fewer than five percent of the Palo Alto suburbs were still standing. Most houses were rubble, the debris pushed into huge piles every few houses. Some people still had gardens. We passed rich guys sitting on hand-tied silk carpets from Stephen Miller's gallery, all powered without sound.
When we arrived at the ruins of the Stanford Shopping Center, Rhonda finally got it. "Where's Nordstrom? And Macy's?"
The multideck parking lot was a complete wreck, but I was unprepared for the carnage to the stores. Entire walls were missing. How, I wondered? And, when we passed Neiman-Marcus, a woman knelt at the one standing wall, sticking a piece of paper in a crevice. Great. The wailing wall of Neiman-Marcus. Who knew?
Bang & Olufsen looked like someone had exploded an electronics factory. Rhonda whimpered over red-satin-nylon-that-would-not-die thongs and push-up bras from Victoria's Secret. No one had touched those.
"Karma, get them for me. I wear a 34B."
I didn't have the heart to point out that she was, maybe, a 4 at present. After all, I was hoping that I could free her from the sword. I scrounged around the rubble and found two bra-and-thong sets in aubergine. I guess no one wanted eggplant-colored undies.
At Rhonda's insistence, we scrounged through the wreckage for clothes. Most of the stuff was too torn or worn to use, but I found a couple of the golden-age sixties outfits and two intact pairs of white go-go boots in my size. Not that I'd wear them, but I might have to if I wore out my other shoes.
"It's just so sad." Rhonda started crying. For the first time, I felt sorry for her. Her world was gone, and she wouldn't really know how to cope in mine. She didn't even like being a sword. Last week, when we'd killed the guy who tried to rob the house, I had whacked off his arm and all she could do was yell, "Gross!"
Finally, the question formed in my head. If she'd been enchanted, maybe she could be unenchanted. Maybe I could have a sword all my own without being pestered about shaving my legs.
"So who put you into a sword anyway?"
"The Duke did."
"The evil wizard?" I asked.
"Wizard, hah. He's a scientist. And a surfer. He so totally hates it when people call him a wizard."
I sighed. "They call him a wizard only because they've heard about the dog."
"That was a failed spell . . . I mean formula."
"See?" I asked. "Even you called it a spell."
"Karma, it was so totally not a spell."
"How do you know?"
"I just know," Rhonda said coldly.
"Then what happened?"
"Like, you know the rest. I didn't stop seeing his apprentice Joe. We'd even exchanged our puka shell necklaces and everything. We were practically married, but hadn't signed the papers. The Duke was totally mad that I wouldn't obey him. Like why would I, you know? Well, he said he'd teach me a lesson. He turned me into a friggin' sword. And then, Joe tried to hug me and sliced his arm up."
"Where's the Duke now?"
"He died the next year, and Joe left for Monterey and I've tried to get there all this time."
Great. So the Duke couldn't undo the spell. "How long have you been a sword?" I knew it couldn't have been too many years; retro sixties had been popular just before the Collapse.
"What year is it?"
I told her.
"So it's been, hmm, my math is rusty. Eight years?"
"Yep." What next? "How about if we take you to someone who might have an idea how to get Joe back?"
"That'd be awesome. I would so totally owe you."
I smiled.
Along El Camino, one of the few places that hadn't been devastated was the Psychic Eye shop in Mountain View. I hovered over on the poncho, singing to the Herb Alpert tune "Casino Royale."
Inside the store, the soft sounds of Enya, the reverb queen, played from a tune crystal.
I approached the counter, asked for a reading. The clerk led me through beaded curtains into a back room.
"I am Elvis; I can read for you," the small waif of a man with a glow-in-the-dark smile said. He wore a gold lamé dinner jacket and sunglasses. "Your question?"
"How can I keep my sword and help Rhonda, who is trapped in the sword, live a happy life?" Okay, I didn't care about the happy life part, but I try to live my life by principles.
He turned over five cards, flashing a pinky ring with each card. Three of rods. Three of swords. Three of pentacles. Three of cups. Magician.
His brow furled, then he said, "Aha!"
"What?"
He leaned back smugly. "Try the elements."
"You mean like oxygen?"
"No, no. Fire, Air, Earth, and Water. In that order."
"Huh?" I looked at the cards: a guy looking out to sea, a breaking heart, a guy working on a church window, and three women hovering over glasses. Didn't seem related to what he was saying.
"You see, all of these are threes, so it's about threes—that part of the journey that's the separation. And the three of swords means separation. So it's about each element. And the Magician card has all the elements. So, that's your answer."
I nodded, realizing he wasn't going to give me anything that made sense. I pulled out the money, but he gestured at a stout ceramic jar.
"I don't touch money myself. It changes my readings."
Whatever. I put the money in the jar. As I left, I looked back and noticed that the jar had writing on it: Mistakes.
This time, since I needed to carry more stuff, I decided to take the Johnny Rice. At least we'd have better music. We sang "Surfer Girl" and other old surfer tunes as we cruised west to Half Moon Bay. We stopped in the mountains to get some wood, because I knew I'd need a fire.
When I got to the beach, I pitched a tent, because I had no idea how long everything would take. I'd want to crash later and I'd be tired.
I dragged some branches out onto the beach and built a fire.
"Karma, what are you doing?"
"Following Elvis's advice."
"I'm afraid of fire. I don't want to get burned."
I sighed, put a potholder on the hilt, and thrust her in anyway.
Before the sword warmed to the touch, she screamed and yelled so much that I couldn't help it. I pulled the sword out. "Do you want out or not?"
"Yes, but Karma, that just totally hurts."
I stuck her back in the fire anyway.
"Karma, stop it. Don't make me scream again."
I felt sorry for her, so I pulled her out.
I thought about the next thing. Air. Well, I could just sit here on the beach and hold her up, I suppose.
So, I settled back in the sand, and held the sword aloft, but all I got was wind-chapped and a sore arm.
"Karma? What are we doing?"
"Holding you into the wind."
"Oh." She paused for a moment. "Why are we doing this again?"
"Sheesh, how many times do I have to remind you?"
I held her aloft in my other arm for a while, but nothing happened.
"Okay, air didn't help."
With the shovel from my pack, I dug a hole in the sand.
I lowered Rhonda into the hole, then started shovelling sand over the sword. She started screaming again.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm using Earth to free you." By this time, I was growling. I was doing this for her, or so I kept trying to convince myself. But no, she just wouldn't cooperate.
"You hate me. Admit it."
At first, I did. The thing was, she was growing on me. I pulled her out and cleaned the sand off. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help."
Exhausted, I sat in front of the smouldering fire and cooked some meat. We went into the tent, and I collapsed, waking in late morning.
After breakfast, I tried Water. I walked out into the waves and dunked her into the ocean.
"You idiot!" Rhonda burbled. "I can't swim!"
"What, a Valley Girl surfer chick who can't swim?" I pulled her back out so I could hear her answer better.
"I don't surf, silly. I just go to the beach to watch bitchin' dudes and work on my tan!"
I shook my head. I should have known. Why the hell had I trusted a psychic named Elvis?
I had to spend the whole next day making up to Rhonda for dunking her in salt water.
We returned to the Psychic Eye. This time, Elvis wore a white leather jumpsuit with fringe.
"How did you fare?" he asked.
"Not well." I catalogued the various things we'd tried.
"Let's try another reading," he said.
What the hell. Worst case, I'd be off on some other wild goose chase.
This time, he dealt three cards. Three of cups. Three of swords. Tower.
"Two of those cards are the same," I say. I wasn't sure he'd remember, but I did.
"Yes. They are clearly more significant."
"Please don't tell me to do the same thing over. I couldn't stand it." Rhonda whimpered, so I knew she agreed.
"Does she love someone?"
"Of course."
"Has he kissed the sword?" He stopped for a second, then looked up. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made that assumption."
"It is a he. I don't know that he's kissed the sword, but he did try to hug it."
"Not the brightest bean in the crop, is he?"
I shrugged. "What should I do?"
He looked at me, and I knew. Have her kiss him. Naturally. We hopped off to Monterey, where Joe still had his Surf Shak.
Naturally, we had to take the Johnny Rice. Rhonda insisted.
Joe looked older than Rhonda had described. She giggled when she saw him. I had to admit, he was the perfect surfer dude: blond curly hair pointing in all directions. Tall, broad-shouldered, tan, looking pretty fine in the tank top. Heck, I could totally see why Rhonda liked him. Totally? Gah. I had to get away from Rhonda. Soon.
"Can I help you?" He looked up and down, recognizing me as Not Of His Tribe. Then he noticed my board. "Gnarly board you have there."
"Yeah, I've got something to show you."
"Oh?" He asked.
I put the surfboard down and pulled out Rhonda. I showed him the sword. He looked up, smiling.
"Rhonda. Is she . . . ?"
"She's fine." I noticed the shell necklace, probably what Rhonda had talked about. And I realized, when I looked in his face, that he'd missed her all this time. "Someone suggested that, if you kissed the sword, she might be able to depart."
He flexed his right arm and I saw the scar from the sword where he'd tried to hug her.
"Just don't kiss the edge, okay?"
He kissed the flat of the blade, but it was just a quick peck.
"No, silly. Kiss her."
He looked embarrassed. Then, on a whim, I kissed it. A nice, long, slow kiss.
"Eeww, that is so gross. I am out of here. I am so out of here!" And a long-haired bleached blonde stepped out of the sword into Joe's arms. She was completely nude, but that didn't bother Joe. It bothered me though. I didn't really want to look.
I turned away to leave.
"Stay for the wedding." Rhonda said. "It'll be awesome!"
"No, you two have a lot of catching up to do. But, I have a wedding present for you." I gave them both the Johnny Rice. A surfer couple should have a nice vintage surfboard.
"Dude, that's freakin' awesome, thank you," he said, trying to cram all the words into a single syllable.
"Oh, Karma, you're just so bitchin'," Rhonda said. She turned to hug me, but I didn't want to be near her.
The sword? I renamed it when I got home.
Mo. Silent Mo.