by Gene Wolfe
I had no sooner reached the back of the house, than my eye fell upon an old-fashioned cellar door greatly in need of paint, the kind that the boys of long ago slid down. There is a hasp on it, but no lock.
My first thought was to nail it shut, as I had the side door. In the end I refrained for three reasons, all of which seem good to me. The first, of course, was that if I were to nail it shut I could not use it myself. In the case of the side door, that hardly matters; the front and rear doors remain at my disposal. There is presumably some means of accessing the cellar from within the house, but I have yet to discover it. Until I do, I would be locking myself out of my own cellar.
Second, I rather hoped the boy would return. I boxed and fenced at the university, as you may recall. I will not say I was expert at either; those who were regarded me with contempt. Yet I did those things. Last night I suffered defeat at the hands of a mere boy, and I find that I regard myself with greater contempt because of it.
Besides, I have his apparatus--his, assuming he did not steal it. If it is his, he should be able to tell me what it is and how it is used; and if it is his, I am honor bound to return it.
Third, my small supply of nails (I found them in the old lady's tool shed) is nearly exhausted.
Once I had rejected the notion of nailing my cellar door, it occurred to me that padlocks are not particularly costly and that I might purchase one when I receive my allowance.
After that, that the doors of the garage are already padlocked. I had given the garage little attention. Indeed, I had given it so little that I imagined it had been built to house a single automobile.
That was an error. It is a three-car garage. There are two small (and very dirty) windows, but no entrance other than the three large doors intended to admit three automobiles. I tried to peer through the windows, but the interior was so dark that I could see nothing.
No doubt it is empty--or full of rubbish. Still, one of those padlocks would be very useful once I have settled matters with the boy.
Here, George, I had planned to give you the best of my news. I find, however, that my conscience will not permit it. Earlier I concealed something from you, knowing that you would not credit it.
I told you about Winkle, the small creature--I cannot call her an animal--I discovered in a cage in the attic. I told you that indeed, but concealed the fact that she can speak.
You have wadded this letter into a tight little ball and thrown it into your wastebasket. I know it. I can only hope that you will repent, smooth it out, and read the rest. In an hour, perhaps, or in a day or two.
First, let me say that I am not mad, no matter what you may think. She speaks, and I hear her.
Second, she is no chatterer. Her words are small and generally few.
Third, I am not about to attempt to profit by her. I feel quite sure she would be like my ring. In the presence of others she would become (I believe) an ordinary fox, red with black markings. You need believe nothing of this, of course.
Nor will you. If I had not known I would not be believed, I doubt that I would have told you.
My great news is that she has shown herself again. I asked where she had been, and she said she had not left at all, only hidden. It seemed clear that she did not wish to reveal her hiding place, so I did not inquire.
"It's wonderful to have you back again, Winkle. I've missed you."
She climbed me, very quickly and easily, and laid her cheek against mine.
"Are you hungry?"
She shook her little head.
"That's good because I have nothing to give you. We might fish in the river, though. Would you like that?"
She nodded, and I carried her out the back door and put her down on the lawn. "Here's the circle where the dancers you showed me were. See the mushrooms?"
"I thee . . ." Her voice is small and soft, but I thought she sounded thoughtful.
"I've been running down to the river, then back to the house."
She said nothing, so I added, "Three times. If I'm going to fight the boy again--"
"One tho bad."
"I know, and if I'm going to fight him again I need to be in condition, which is why I've been doing push-ups and running down to the water and back. I was resting when you came."
She nodded, I suppose to show she understood.
"What I wanted to say was that I was careful each time to jump the mushrooms. I don't know why, but I was."
"Riverman?"
"Did I see him, you mean? No. It's just a legend, I'm sure."
Winkle looked dubious, but said no more. We were in the house collecting what I may humorously call my fishing gear when I heard footsteps from the floor above.
My first thought was that it was absurdly unfair. I had only just begun my training program. I was tired and more than a little winded. And here he was again.
My second was that I might kill him. The stick I had cut for a fishing pole is about five feet long and, though crooked, quite strong. (Before adopting it for angling, I had attempted to break it over my knee.) I grasped it then and hurried upstairs even while I knit a plan to dispose of the body.
Seeing him, I did not pause to demand his surrender, but assaulted him straight out, swinging my stick for all I was worth. My third blow knocked him to the floor, and he screamed.
It stopped me cold, George. I cannot explain why. Or rather, I can, but there were so many reasons I despair of explaining them all. Perhaps the primary reason was that I realized, when I heard his scream, that I was victorious. It is only rarely that I have I been victorious in life's battles, George, as you know.
"Give up?" I was so winded that it was all I could do to get the words out.
"Yes!"
"Very well." I stepped back, gasping for breath.
He sat up. "Who are you?"
"It seems to me," I said, "that it's I who should be asking you. Answer, and provide some identification, or you will regret it."
"I'm Emlyn." He was rubbing his bruises.
"That can't be all."
"The Good."
"All right, Emlyn Theegood, prove it." Even as I said that, it occurred to me that he was too young to have a driver's license. Was there some sort of identification that might be expected of a boy?
"How can I prove it?" There was despair in his eyes, George. I have seen it too often in my own to mistake it in another's.
"Is there someone who'll vouch for you?"
He shook his head.
"What about your father?"
"If we can find him."
"I suppose he's at work. What about your mother?"
His eyes filled with tears, and I did a very foolish thing, George. You need not trouble to tell me you would not have done it. I know it.
I went to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder.
Like lightning, he snatched my stick and punched me in the stomach. I bent double, and took three hard blows from my own stick upon my head and shoulders.
I fell, and he stood over me with my stick raised. "Now you know how it feels."
Rubbing my head, I sat up. "It wasn't as bad as your kicks last night."
His eyes grew very wide when I said that, but I ignored it.
"You've won," I told him. "Doubtless you would like the apparatus you dropped returned to you. You may have it, and need not believe me when I say I would cheerfully have returned it without a fight."
"The triannulus? Yes, I want it back. My longlight, too."
Would you have looked wise at that, George? I confess I did not; I felt a fool, and no doubt looked like one. "Is triannulus what you call that apparatus? What in the world is a longlight?"
"I had one when you surprised me. You must have seen it. I--I dropped it and ran. I thought you were Ieuan, and you'd have a sword or a knife."
"Ieuan?"
Emlyn nodded. "He's my brother."
You may imagine, George, how I felt when I heard that. I coughed and stammered a bit. At last I said, "Is your face bruised?
"
"I don't think so. It doesn't hurt."
"Would you, as a favor to me--I realize that I am in no position to give you orders--stand nearer the window?"
He nodded slowly and did as I asked.
"I am a twin," I told him. "My brother's name is George. You need not ask his appearance, because you're seeing me."
Emlyn laughed. "I saw you took a thumping. That was Ieuan?"
"I believe so. He beat me, as you see, but I did not go down without a fight. I hit him hard, more than once. He would show signs of it, I'm sure."
"You're telling the truth," Emlyn informed me.
"Thank you. I'm glad you realize it."
"I'm good at that, and I might as well tell you. Do you like your brother? The truth now."
"No. You want the truth and you shall have it. I love my brother. We shared our mother's womb. . . ."
"But you don't like him."
"May I explain? He's terribly afraid people will think him weak. Why, I don't know--I only know he is. He's bad mannered, because he thinks good manners are a sign of weakness. I . . ."
"Yes?" Emlyn struck the floor with the butt of my stick. "Now tell the truth!"
"I won't say I have good manners. That's for others to judge. But I try to be well mannered, and I'm quite certain George thinks I'm weak. Not just because of that, or even largely because of that. There are other reasons."
"Does he hurt people?"
"Yes, but so do I, only too often."
"And animals?"
I shrugged. "I eat their flesh."
"So do I." He hesitated; and I tried, unsuccessfully, to guess what he was thinking. At length he said, "I gave you my name and my brother's. What's yours?"
"Bax." I held out my hand "I don't suppose you want to risk shaking hands with me, but I'm entirely willing to shake yours if you are. There will be no treachery."
He smiled and we clasped hands; then he said, "Want your stick back?"
"It doesn't matter now, does it?"
He shook his head and handed it to me. "You said you'd give me the triannulus back."
"Is it yours?"
"It's Father's. I borrowed it, and I have to return it."
I said, "Then I'll certainly give it back to you."
"The longlight's mine. I made it. I'd like that back, too."
"Are you sure I have it? I don't know what it is."
"When you first saw me, when I dropped the triannulus, I was carrying a light. Did you get it?"
"Your candle? Yes, I did." I tried to recall what I had done with it. "Is that the longlight?"
He nodded. "This is somewhat technical I'm afraid. Have you used the triannulus?"
"I wouldn't know how."
"Give it back to me and I'll show you."
I asked a few questions about his father after that. Emlyn described him and explained that he had tired of his sons squabbling and gone away, leaving them to settle their differences.
"I take it you haven't."
He sighed and shrugged. "He's my brother. I hope someday he'll understand that I'm his."
We went downstairs together, and I got the apparatus down from the closet. "Your brother looked in there for it," I told Emlyn, "but he missed it. He was so angry he broke my window. That woke me up, and we fought."
"He broke your window?"
I showed it to him.
"He isn't like that." Emlyn sounded thoughtful.
"Not like what?"
Emlyn sighed. "There's hot anger and cold anger. Hot anger is when you yell and stamp and break things. That's the way I am when I'm angry."
I said, "I understand."
"Cold anger is when you smile and wait. An hour later, or a week, you do something horrible. That's the way Ieuan is. Do you understand that, too?"
I said I thought so. "That's why you gave me back my stick, isn't it?"
"You're right. Lies almost always sound false to me. So I didn't think you were lying, but I wanted to be sure. Why did Ieuan break your window?"
The question surprised me, I admit. I said that I had thought he broke it because he was angry; and if it was not that, then I had no idea.
"It wasn't, and it would be good for us--for me, anyway--to know why he did. Breaking it made you so angry you attacked him? Didn't you say that?"
"Yes. Hot anger."
Emlyn nodded absently. "Is there someone you can get to repair it?"
I knew there was some putty left and tried to recall how much glass I had. "I'd rather make the repair myself. I repaired it a few days ago."
Emlyn jumped as if struck. "You repaired it?"
"Yes, I did. I'm not a skillful worker, but--"
"I understand. This could be important. I hope so. The window possesses some property that Ieuan doesn't want you to control. That has to be it. Think very carefully now. Did you repair it before--or was it after--you got my longlight?"
"Before."
Emlyn smiled. "Let's hope that's right. You're quite sure?"
"Certain." I pointed to the apparatus. "I got your longlight when I got this. I had neither when I repaired the window."
"Good. You'll understand why I say that when you understand the triannulus. Where's my longlight?"
My eyes fell on the lamp. "I was sitting in here reading. . . ."
"Yes?"
I snapped my fingers. "A neighbor came and gave me that. It's an oil lamp."
Emlyn waited.
"We lit it and he blew out the candle. Blew out your longlight."
"You hadn't--never mind. Go on."
"He gave me a spare can of oil for it, too. I was afraid of what might happen if the oil got too close to the fire, so I put it in the kitchen after he left. Put the oil and the long light in there together, side by side."
I felt quite proud of myself for remembering that, George; but when we went to get it, it was gone. I looked and Emlyn, and he at me.
"This is where I put it," I said. "Right here next to the oil, on this shelf in this cabinet."
I had never heard the sharp bark of a fox before, but I heard it then and spun around.
The fox was Winkle, of course. She was standing in the kitchen doorway with the longlight in front of her; her expression was more mischievous than ever.
I said, "Well! I wondered what had happened to you," and went to get it.
At which, George, she picked it up and ran.
Emlyn yelled, "The facefox!" and sprinted after her.
We chased her, I believe, through most of the rooms on the lower floor, and there are a good many of them. Emlyn, who can run far faster than I, was always in hot pursuit. I tried to get ahead of her and block her exit.
Neither of us succeeded, and at last we gave up and sat down on the floor, panting.
At which Winkle sat, too, carefully set the longlight down in front of her, and grinned at us.
"Please, Winkle." I gasped for breath. "Let us have it. It belongs to Emlyn here."
Emyln said, "I've been trying to find you because I learned that Ieuan had caged you. I was going to set you free. Doesn't that prove I'm a friend?"
"Ahhh! Tho?"
"If you'll give it back to me now--it's mine, it really is--I'll always be your friend. I'll never try to force you like Ieuan did." Emlyn raised his hand. "That I swear by wind and tree, by grass, river, and hill."
Winkle nodded and looked at me. "Ahhh, tho?"
"You don't need a friend as poor as I am, Winkle. I know that. I was the one who needed a friend, and you were that friend for a day or two. I--I'd like for us to be friends again. Won't you be my pet? You'll always be free to come and go, and if there's any way I can help you, I'll do it. Any way at all."
At that, Winkle picked up the longlight, trotted over to me, and set it down in front of me.
I must end my letter here, George. This is my last sheet, and my eyes ache after so much writing by lamplight. I shall recount to you the rest when I have obtained more paper.
Please remember th
at I long to hear from you, whether you will assist me or not. How are you? How is Millie?
Yours sincerely,
Bax
Number 9
SORCERY
Dear George:
This paper itself is interesting. You may recall that the first boy (Emlyn) promised to show me how his father's triannulus operates. Once we had reclaimed his longlight from Winkle, he did so.
"Each ring is a want list," he explained. "The inside ring has the shortest list, because it has the least room to put things in."
I nodded.
"The middle ring has everything that's on the inside ring and some more things of its own. Look here. See this symbol?"
I did. It was an oval surrounding something that might have been a flame.
"It's not on the inner ring, but it is on middle ring. See?"
I remarked that it was on the outer ring as well and asked what it meant.
Emlyn looked up at me. "I don't know. Do you?"
Lacking your imagination, George, I could only confess that I had no idea.
"See if you can find this snake on the outer ring."
I did, without much difficulty.
"Right. Everything that's on the middle ring is on the outer ring, and a few more."
(Winkle was between us, and bent over the triannulus with as much interest as I.)
"Tell me something you want," Emlyn instructed me, "and we'll use this to try to find it."
"Stationery," I said.
He looked up. "What's that?"
"Writing paper and envelopes. I've been writing my brother from time to time, and I've only a little left."
"That's terribly trivial, and I'm certain it's not on the inner ring. What we want now is something that's on all three."
"What about money? I need money badly."
Emlyn nodded. "That's on all three, I believe. Yes, here. It's on the inner, so it must be on all three. We'll line them up."
At this point, George, I recalled my fish; but I said nothing about them then. Each of the glyphs he aligned showed three small circles of varying size. I suppose they represent coins.
"Now move the pointer so it points to them. You're the one who wants money, so it will be better if you do it."
