Marianne, the Matchbox and the Malachite Mouse

by Sheri S. Tepper

  ‘I think so, too. Well, when my father had lost his bet and became fully aware of the implications of what he had done, he was in sheer desperation and he went to someone for help. An expatriate Lubovoskan living here in the United States, a shaman named Grutch. Not his real name, of course, which is or was unpronounceable, but Father called him Grutch.’

  This was bad news for Marianne. Lubovosk was infamous for its shamans, and she, herself, had reason to know how well deserved that reputation was. ‘Your father felt this Grutch was very powerful?’ suggested Marianne.

  ‘There would have been little point in going to someone who wasn’t,’ Dagma snapped. ‘And, believe me, whatever you are thinking at this moment concerning my father’s sanity, I thought at the time and said, at some length, to Father. I expatiated on foolishness and irresponsibility and so forth, so we needn’t go over all that again …’ Dagma panted a little, raising herself in the bed. Marianne helped her, then smoothed down the pillow and coverlet.

  ‘Now, my dear, this is all very muddled because though my father did tell me about it, he told me a slightly different story each time – trying to make himself appear in a more flattering light, I should think. Putting two and two together, I pieced out what had happened. This shaman, Grutch, obtained for my father a very powerful talisman that belonged to a creature named Cattermune. Grutch told my father that this talisman was from some Other Place.’

  ‘Cattermune! Other Place?’

  ‘Well, when one hears that phrase, one thinks of hell, doesn’t one? But it was not hell, my dear. I really don’t think so. No, just an Other Place. At any rate, Grutch told my father how he could use this talisman – and I have no idea myself how it was done – and when the supernatural being came to collect my father’s life and soul, the talisman protected my father and the being went away in a fury.’

  ‘Had this Cattermune set a price for this talisman?’

  ‘My father said not, and each time he told the story he was consistent in this particular detail, which made me believe it was more or less true. Grutch told my father that this being, Cattermune, simply liked helping people. That though Cattermune – let me see, what were Papa’s exact words – “That though Cattermune expected any grateful person would return the talisman by the indicated date, he was happy to lend it out of the goodness of his heart.” Cattermune’s heart, that is.’

  ‘What was this talisman that your father borrowed?’

  ‘It was … is … appears to be a matchbox.’

  ‘A matchbox,’ Marianne repeated expressionlessly.

  ‘It’s over there, on the table by the window. A gold matchbox. There may have been matches in it at one time. Perhaps they were ensorcelled matches. Or if not matches, something else.’

  ‘I see.’

  Great-aunt Dagma turned restlessly upon the pillow and gave Marianne a grumpy look. ‘Well, you know that you don’t “see,” and neither do I, because the entire matter made very little sense. However, I do remember very distinctly that the matchbox was supposed to be returned. My father said, in this infuriatingly casual way he had when he was skating along the very edge of disaster, “He wants it back, of course.” And I said, “Who does, Father?” and he replied, “This fellow Cattermune, from the Other Place, of course. He wants it back by his birthday.” And then Father laughed and told me when the birthday was. “If I don’t get it back to him by then, I’ll be overdue,” he said.’

  ‘Did you ask him what “overdue” meant?’

  ‘I did. He didn’t seem greatly concerned. And the date it was to be returned was so very far in the future that, quite frankly, I didn’t take it seriously.’

  ‘Umm. Perhaps your father thought it would be like an overdue book at the library.’

  ‘Well, that’s about what I thought originally. Nothing serious. Something rather casual. Twenty cents a day fine. Something like that. But I’m afraid it was really rather more than that. Dagma pushed herself up on her pillows, an angry flush making her cheeks red and hectic-looking. ‘Father talked to me a lot. He told me stories about himself even when I wished very much he would not, because he seldom told them completely or with any accuracy and I found his tales confusing. In addition to which they deprived me of something every daughter should be allowed to have: respect for her father! It was as though by telling me of his failings, even though he minimized everything when he did so, he had somehow exculpated himself from any responsibility for them. In this case, he actually did free himself of any responsibility …’ Her voice faded away and her eyes closed.

  Marianne waited for a moment and then prompted gently, ‘Dagma, what happened?’

  The aged woman opened her eyes, shook her head from side to side, very gently, as though she were afraid it might come off at the neck, then said, ‘At the time of the initial incident, Father spoke to me about the matchbox half a dozen times, over a period of three or four months. Then, after that, he didn’t mention it for years. I quite forgot about it. Much later – I think it must have been at least ten or eleven years later – Father made a trip to Alphenlicht. I’m quite sure he made a visit to the Cave of Light. Father was entirely capable of going to the Cave of Light for a tip on a horse race.’

  ‘Not very respectful,’ murmured Marianne, wondering how Therat would have reacted to a petitioner taking advantage of Alphenlicht’s national religious shrine to get a gambling tip.

  ‘Father was not a respectful kind of person. Well, in any event, he returned from Alphenlicht very gray in the face. I recall it well. I had a dinner engagement the night he returned, a man I loved very much, a man I believed would have asked me to marry him on that evening. I was tired of being a spinster. I was, quite frankly, middle-aged. Father asked me to break the date. He said he had something he had to tell me, and then when I had done what he asked – which offended my friend greatly, by the way. Though we saw one another after that, he never did … well, that night was the end of all my hopes – when I sat down with father, he trembled and rambled and contradicted himself and it was very difficult to make any sense whatsoever of it. The gist of the matter was that the matchbox, which he had always treated as a kind of joke, had to be returned. He had to return it! He had forgotten about it, he told me, he had not thought it was important, but it had to be returned.’

  ‘Well then,’ Marianne said impatiently, ‘why didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m telling you, child. By the time he got to the point it was rather late in the evening. He said, “In the morning. First thing in the morning. You’ll find the things in my second desk drawer on the left, Dagma. Bring them up when you bring my tea.” I always used to take him tea in the morning. He treasured my doing so, and it was little enough in the way of filial duty. Mind you, he said all this in a very serious voice, quite a frightened voice, a tone which transfixed me because it was so unlike him. Father always treated disaster as though it were some kind of minor inconvenience, and to hear him actually frightened …’

  ‘Yes?’ Marianne prompted once more.

  ‘Well, when I took up his tea along with the paper and other things from his desk drawer, I found he had died in his sleep, smiling quite peacefully. He had died very conveniently. I’m afraid I have always felt that he knew the heart attack was coming, that he had passed on his responsibilities purposely, merely to avoid cleaning up the messy details of his life. They were many, and some of them were quite unpleasant. His relationships with women after my poor mother died were convoluted in the extreme. He had made certain representations to at least six ladies, representations which he had no way at all of making good even if he had lived for some time longer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marianne inadequately.

  ‘So was I, and so, needless to say, were they. Ah, well, it’s long ago. I was very angry and hurt at the time, but it is far in the past. I did get everything take care of, bit by bit, except for this matter …’

  ‘I should have thought you would have seen to this at once, especially sinc
e he had mentioned it just before he died.’

  ‘When Papa died, Marianne, there were things that seemed of more immediate concern, believe me. The date he had mentioned as the deadline for the return of the matchbox was ludicrously far in the future. Fifty years in the future. Even though he had said he intended to take care of it immediately, there were more urgent things that had to be done right then. I did not really forget about it, Marianne. From time to time I would remind myself …’

  ‘Dagma.’

  ‘Yes, child.’

  ‘If your father was dead, surely the responsibility to return the thing died with him.’

  ‘Well, of course it did, if we were speaking only of responsibility and not of consequences. When I went through Father’s things, I found a letter which he had written on the plane on his way back from Alphenlicht. He had written it to me, perhaps intending to post it and then disappear, leaving it to me to take care of. That would have been a bit much, however, even for Father, and he hadn’t sent it.’

  ‘And it said?’

  ‘That if the matchbox was not returned, there would be terrible consequences. His exact words were, “To me, and to my nearest and dearest and to theirs …” How could one interpret this? I judged it to mean there were dreadful consequences to him, and if not to him, to his nearest kin.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Me. And failing me, my nearest kin, my nephew – your dear papa. And failing him, his nearest kin, which would be you, Marianne. Or your baby.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Marianne said feelingly.

  ‘Precisely. Well, finding the letter was more or less the last straw. My love had abandoned me. Father had died. There was all his mess and confusion. I had what in those days was called a “nervous breakdown” and spent several months in hospital. When I came out, I fully intended to take care of it but didn’t. I should have taken care of it years ago. I didn’t. Funk, probably. Not knowing how to go about it.’ The dark eyes fixed on the garden shifted around the room. ‘And anger at him, of course, for leaving me with all his unfinished business. And then, he had told me that it didn’t need to be done until fifty years in the future! It’s so unlikely. Perhaps I thought I would die and someone else would have to … No. I hope I was not that craven! I simply postponed the matter. Over and over again, postponed it. Half the time I didn’t even believe it.’

  ‘And the other half …’

  ‘I did, and it frightened me. So I didn’t think about it. I must have inherited that ability from Father, the ability to conveniently forget …’

  ‘When does it have to be returned by, Aunt Dagma.’

  ‘Next Thursday, dear. Six days from now …’

  Marianne felt a tumbling wave of panic. She had assumed it would be something she could take care of after the baby came. This had to be done at once.

  ‘Perhaps Makr Avehl …’ she began.

  ‘Father’s letter said the matchbox had to be returned by a blood member of the family,’ Great-aunt Dagma concluded. ‘So you see, it’s no good our asking Makr Avehl to help.’

  ‘How, where …’ she stuttered.

  ‘Well, that’s really the problem, how and where. If I had known how and where, I would likely have taken care of the matter long ago. The whole thing is rather mysterious. I still have the original paper and things that I took from his desk drawer the morning I found him dead,’ said Dagma, pulling out the drawer in the nightstand beside her bed and removing a folded sheet of parchment. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it and went on trembling as Marianne leaned closer. ‘I did look at them at the time. I can’t say they made sense to me.’ She whispered this last, leaning over the parchment.

  Marianne turned the sheet, examining it closely. Printed or drawn on it was a twining line of squares, with various offshoots from the main line. Some of the squares were printed with meaningless words, others were squiggles. It reminded Marianne of something, but for a time she could not think what it was. Then it came to her.

  ‘It’s like a board game, isn’t it?’ Marianne cried. ‘Snakes and ladders. I used to play that with my English cousins. What’s this? It says, “Start Here,” then there’s a square reading “Space to let,” then the next one reads, “Buttercup, Birth to Eight Years.”’

  Dagma pulled herself into a half sitting position. ‘After that one comes a square reading “Forever,” then one that says “The Shoe,” then one that reads, “G’nop, 3 Minutes.”’

  ‘A game? Some kind of game.’ Marianne stared at it, trying to force it to make sense. ‘Dagma, do you have any idea what the consequences are if we don’t get the matchbox back to its owner?’

  ‘I have no idea, except that Father described them as horrible.’

  ‘Loss of one’s … um … soul?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’

  ‘You? And then my father? And then me, and the baby?’

  Dagma nodded slowly, her eyes suddenly ancient and no longer bright. ‘I would play the game myself, right now, if I only knew how …’

  Marianne went to the table by the window where the matchbox lay and took it into her hand. A simple thing, but heavy, clearly made of gold, with a slide-out drawer to hold matches or whatever it had held or did hold. Around the outside were lines of deeply engraved characters, not in any written language Marianne had ever seen before, and on the top and bottom of the matchbox was the deeply etched design of an anchor attached to a chain. The chain curled up, over the edge of the box, and disappeared into the crack where the drawer went. The carved inscription was probably a spell, she thought, source of the power of the box. She shook it. Something inside rattled harshly. Not matches. Something harder than that. She tried to open the box, unsuccessfully.

  ‘I don’t think you can open it except when you have to,’ Dagma said.

  ‘I find it very strange. That is, the name of the creature who lent this to your father.’

  ‘Is that any stranger than any other part of it? Someone named Cattermune? From some Other Place? Here, on this parchment, there are several references to Cattermune. One square is labeled “Cattermune’s House,” and another is “Cattermune’s Pique.” An odd name, yes, and yet there is a shop of that name in the city. I saw an advertisement in the paper only last week, just after the man had been here. I took it as another reminder …’

  ‘That name has popped up half a dozen times in the last few days,’ Marianne replied. ‘If it is a reminder, it seems to be reminding the whole world! Aghrehond and I saw a shop with that name in London. And at the airport here. And twice more, in shopping centers …’

  ‘It could be only coincidence,’ Dagma murmured. ‘Couldn’t it?’

  ‘You said your father left the original paper “and things.” What “things,” Dagma?’ Marianne returned to the bed, absentmindedly dropping the matchbox into her pocket.

  Dagma reached into the drawer beside her once more, bringing out a thick envelope which she spilled onto the bedcover – a pair of dice and several inch-long figures which appeared to have been carved from semi-precious jewels. Marianne picked them up and examined them one by one. A turquoise tortoise. A rhodolite rhinoceros. An amethyst ape. A malachite mouse. Marianne stared at them, childhood memories stirring. ‘Game pieces,’ she said. ‘That’s what they are. And, that tells us how to play, Dagma.’ She spread the parchment on the bedside table and placed the malachite mouse on the square lettered ‘Start Here.’

  ‘Now,’ she said without thinking about it, utterly unaware of what she was saying. ‘I think we can assume it would be played this way. The first thing to do would be roll the dice …’

  She threw them out upon the game and they came to rest, one, and one.

  ‘Snake eyes,’ said Marianne, just before she vanished.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Buttercup saw nothing. Mouse saw everything. To Buttercup, sounds were only sensations, some pleasurable, some not. To Mouse they were voices and tocsins and occasions for fear or reassurance. To Buttercup, the wor
ld went by in a haze of milky unconsciousness, but to Mouse, it germinated, grew, assumed proportions of threat and vengeance – and opportunity.

  The worst part of it was, from Mouse’s point of view, that she could do nothing about anything except perceive it. In the beginning, she could not even stop Buttercup’s aimless armwaving and thumb-sucking. Later on, when it would have been possible for her to stop the thumb-sucking or the howling or anything else she pleased, Mouse had settled down into her observer’s role and was, if not content, at least reconciled to letting time pass.

  There was the physical anomaly, of course. Certain parts of Buttercup’s anatomy were not what Mouse was accustomed to, particularly certain parts of the face and feet. For a time this half-familiar, half-strange feeling made her feel panicky, almost hysterical, but then some recollection of other, similar, occurrences soothed her. Time, she told herself. Time would work things out. She settled herself into the mostly milky nothingness to wait it out. There was plenty of time.

  And with every passing day, it became easier, she had to admit that. As Buttercup acquired understanding and volition and even a limited ability to communicate, it became easier for Mouse to bear. Sheer tedium gave way to matters of at least transitory interest.

  Time passed. The milky unconsciousness turned into perception, into sounds and smells and sights, into the feel of hands on her skin. Single things, at first, and then sequences. And, finally, a full perception of something actually happening: the arrival with her wet nurse at the house of Mr Thrumm.

  It was her first clear memory. Before that she might have heard people in some other and previous location speculating as to whether it was yet safe for her to travel, and she did recall a thin and insinuating voice saying something about her safety – ‘The Van Hoost rogue’s safety!’ – being of no possible concern to anyone. She remembered very little of the journey. Perhaps it had been brief. Perhaps she had slept through it. Perhaps, and it was not impossible, she had been drugged. Much later, recollecting Nursey’s predeliction for saving trouble by any and every means at hand, she thought it not unlikely that Nursey had simply given her something to keep her quiet until they arrived. By that time, she had stopped distinguishing between herself, Mouse, and her other self, Buttercup. It was futile. One could only watch and listen and wait for the time when things would straighten themselves out again.