by Gene Wolfe
"A poor man who just might buy a rare coin to add to his collection."
"You have that backward, I'm afraid. I have a coin I might sell. I probably won't, but I might. I want to hear what a professional has to say about it."
"May I see it?"
Remembering the ring, I hesitated. "You're driving, Doris. I don't think you should."
"I'll pull over."
She did, and I handed her the coin.
"Wow! Is this gold? How old is it?"
"It's certainly gold--not pure gold, of course. As I understand it, pure gold is too soft. As to its age, your guess is as good as mine, so let's hear it."
"What have you got, Bax? Two Ph.D.'s? I think you said that."
I nodded.
"I was a home-economics major and never got a degree. So my guess isn't as good as yours. But I think this goes way back to ancient times. I don't know what the shop in Port Saint Jude will say, but my guess is that Saint Jude in person would call this a really old coin."
A gnome ran the coin shop, a stooped, bald man with glasses and enormous ears. I showed him my coin; he scrutinized it through a large magnifying glass, weighed it, and scrutinized it again through a jeweler's loupe. "You say you found this?"
"Correct. I live in an old house on this side of the river." I cleared my throat. "I own the house, so the coin is legally mine. I was looking at some furniture in the attic and found this coin in a drawer."
He said nothing.
"It looks old and I'm interested in ancient history, so I put it in my pocket. I'd be very grateful if you can tell me anything about it."
"Very little." He sighed. "Very, very little, sir, and I cannot provide the appraisal we spoke of. I've never seen one like this. I have reference books, and I will go through them tonight. If you'll leave your number with me, I'll call you. That's if I find anything."
I gave him my number.
"The helmeted woman on the obverse . . ."
"Yes?"
"Presumably, she is Athena. A woman wearing a helmet on a Greek coin is always Athena, in my experience. The other woman on the reverse--"
Doris interrupted. "Is that a woman?"
"It is, madam. You failed to observe her breasts. Breasts, plural. So would I, without a glass. But they are there." He sighed. "She engages with a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. No doubt you both saw that. Thus she is not a second depiction of Athena, who would surely bear the aegis, the shield of Zeus. Nor is she an Amazon, since an Amazon would have but one breast."
Doris looked surprised, and he added. "That is what the Greek means, madam. Without a breast. One breast was burned away in infancy."
He turned back to me. "Do you wish to sell this, sir?"
"Perhaps. I don't know."
"Knowing no more than I do, I dare not offer too much. Would you consider three hundred dollars?"
I shook my head.
"Then three hundred and fifty, and that is my final offer. Until I know more, I can go no higher."
"No," I said.
"He's a poor man," Doris told the shopkeeper, "who never seems to need money."
He ignored her. "If you like, sir, I will take it on consignment, with a price of five hundred dollars. If it sells, my commission will be twenty percent. Shall I do that?"
I declined, and we drove to the Skotos Strip.
It was larger and more heavily forested than I had imagined. The slope was slight, but perceptible. We drove slowly up Route Thirty-seven until we found a good spot and pulled off the road. As she locked the car, Doris asked what I wanted to do.
"I'd like to walk south from here until we reach the river, then walk along the river a bit. After that we can turn north, find this road, and follow it to the car. It should be two miles or less, I would think. Would that be agreeable?"
It was, and we set out. The oaks--they were nearly all oaks--were large and in full leaf. They protected us from the sun so well that the time might have been an hour after sunset. I had come prepared for mosquitoes. There were none, and a large flashlight would have been a more useful provision. I said as much, and added that I was afraid of stepping in a hole.
"Are you as lost as I am?"
"Not at all, I'm following the slope down. If we do that, we're certain to reach the river."
As I spoke, a hand slipped into mine.
It was pleasant, of course; but a few minutes later when Doris said, "I think I'll turn around and go back," it seemed that she was some distance behind me.
"I'll meet you at the car, in that case," I told her. The hand in mine squeezed it, which I took to mean that she would not actually leave.
Almost at once, a big, heavyset man stood frowning in front of us. I should scarcely have been able to see him, yet I saw him quite distinctly--his white shirt and dark patterned tie, as well as his fleshy, not-unhandsome face.
My companion muttered something, and he vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.
I said, "Did you see that?"
"We are not far from the water."
I looked, but could see only the trees and a little underbrush; listened, but could hear no sound that might have been flowing water.
"A man was standing right in front of us."
She said nothing.
By then I had recovered sufficiently to be frightened. "Tassels on his loafers, dark slacks, and a white shirt." I was babbling.
A fox barked, and my hand no longer held a woman's. Something raced away, too big and too dark, too near the ground. It vanished in an instant.
I pressed on, thinking in a dazed fashion that Doris had to be somewhere ahead. For an interval that felt like hours, nothing more happened. I walked on, always down the slope, sometimes feeling my way with my hands, periodically cursing my stupidity for not bringing my flashlight, and reminding myself over and over that the distance should be no more than half a mile. I felt that I had walked five miles at least, and if you had said eight or ten I might have believed you.
The undergrowth grew thicker; I pushed through it and saw sunshine glaring from water.
Then a young woman, reclining on a fallen log. For one insane instant I thought her back was covered with hair. A moment later I realized it was only that her hair was long, dark, and tangled, seeming never to have known a comb; and that she wore the shaggy pelt of some animal.
Without looking at me, she said, "Sit down. You need a rest."
I thanked her and sat down on the log near her naked feet, panting. The water appeared far clearer than it was when it flowed past my house; if there were houses, garages, or barns on the opposite bank, I could not see them.
"I like you."
"And I'll like you, I'm sure, when we've come to know one another better." It was all I could think of.
"I will do you no hurt."
I said, "That's good. You are quite safe with me, believe me. I've never forced a woman."
"Do you think I fear you?" Her snicker was almost a snarl.
"I hope you don't," I told her, "since you've no reason to."
"Your kind always think themselves dangerous. What have you done with my head?"
I understood then--as I should have the moment I saw her--that she was psychotic. Now I feel sure that she is a psychopath. I sincerely hope you have never had to deal with such people, Millie. I have, unfortunately, and more than once.
"Have you no answer?"
"I haven't touched your head. As I said--"
She sprang up and faced me, all high cheekbones and blazing eyes. "Your servant carried it in to you. What have you done with it?"
"Oh, that head. I didn't know it was yours. Didn't it belong to some unfortunate nurse?"
"It's mine!"
"I understand. Old Nick--I suppose that's who you mean by 'your servant'--had it when I left the house. I'll get it back for you if I can. Would you like me to keep it for you? I would turn it over with pleasure and alacrity anytime you asked."
"Throw it in the river. It will come
to me."
"I . . . see."
"You don't believe me." She laughed, and there was everything a laugh can have in hers except humor--beauty and ugliness, mockery, cruelty, and madness. "Listen now. Hear me."
I listened, and heard precisely nothing. A minute dragged past.
Something was struggling up out of the river; it was mostly white, touched here and there with carmine. Not until I caught sight of the foot did I realize that it was a human leg. As it struggled onto the mud bordering the water, its stench came with it.
"This was to be a gift for the boy who calls to me. Sometimes gifts go astray." She had risen and turned to face me. "It found its way to the water instead. To the water and to me. What is your name, man?"
"Bax."
"I am Lupine." She did not offer to shake hands, at which I felt a surge of joy. "The boy lives in your house. Tell him I hunt for his sake. I will kill again soon."
"Not me, I hope."
"Not you. I will have you for a friend." She smiled; her smile was terrifying. "Whether you will or no."
I said, "I'd like it very much if we were friends." It seemed safe.
"Then do not disturb my gifts. Let him find them." A fox barked some distance away; she looked angry but made no motion.
"Believe me, I shall. May I tell him they're there?"
"That will help." She smiled again.
I rose, backing away. "I think I'll go back to the car I came in. If you don't mind."
"Wait." She pointed to the leg. "Would you like that?"
"No, I--no."
"I don't relish carrion myself. Will you need these?"
They were keys, half a dozen a least, on a key ring from which a pink plastic rabbit dangled; after a moment, I recognized them. "Please let me have them," I said. "I'm sure Doris will want them back."
It evoked the terrifying smile.
"Where did you get them?"
She laughed and tossed them at my feet. When I stood up she had gone, leaving the leg rotting in the mud.
Millie, I nearly abandoned this letter at this point. What I have written already is enough to make you think I have gone mad, I know. I know, too, that George thinks so already. In a way, I am glad he does. I have not seen him in ages, and from what you say he is coming here because he believes I have taken leave of my senses.
But you--I have not the smallest wish to deceive you, but you must surely think me as mad as a hatter. What I am going to write next will put the seal on it.
Joe came for the car. I know I wrote to George about that. It interrupted me, and to tell the truth I was glad of it.
I have told you about the barefoot girl on the log who had Doris's keys. Did I say that she had gone when I straightened up?
Yes. Here it is.
When I saw she had vanished, I cut a staff for myself. The camp knife I had thought little more than an ornament proved sharp and capable. When I had hacked down a sapling and trimmed it, I walked back the way I had come, going up the slope a good deal more slowly than I had gone down it, and feeling my way through the darkest stretches with my staff. It must have taken me an hour or more to cover that half mile, if half mile it was.
At last I struck the road. I had no idea in which direction Doris's car was but turned right at a venture, which proved correct.
My passenger came up just as I was unlocking the door. At once I offered to return her keys. She said, "You will have to drive, Bax."
"Then I will. You must be terribly tired."
She said nothing.
"We should never have separated."
"We are together once more."
I slowed, and turned to look at her; she would not meet my eyes, staring straight ahead.
"Why don't we stop and get something to eat?"
"No."
"My treat, of course."
She did not reply.
I had started to say that I would take her back to her apartment, where she could have a nice bath, when I caught sight of a woman standing by the road and waving.
My passenger saw her too, and laughed.
After that, one glance was enough; and when I stopped for Doris, the seat was empty.
"Thank God, Bax! I'm so tired I could cry." Doris got in. "What have you been carrying in here?"
I said, "It will be hard to explain."
"Don't you smell it? You must."
I sniffed. If I had used my nose earlier, I would not have been deceived.
"Did I leave my keys in the car?"
I shook my head.
"I didn't think so. I took them out of the ignition and locked the car. I know I did. How did you get them?"
"A girl I met down at the river's edge gave them to me."
"Really?"
I nodded. "You probably won't believe me, but that's the truth. This is, too. She brought the smell that you complained about."
"She was in here with you."
"Yes. She was." I stopped and turned to face Doris. "You teased me to tell you about a ghost. There are worse things than ghosts, and I've been talking with one of them today."
"You're serious."
"Serious, tired, and hungry. Will the Lakeshore Inn take us, dirty, and dressed the way we are?"
"I doubt it."
"In that case, we're going to your apartment. You can clean up there and so can I. Do you have pictures of Ted? You must."
Have you read this far, Millie? You are an angel! I must say this before I close: those parts of my letter which you must think most fantastic, I have actually toned down. What I suffered was far more fantastic than I have told you.
Wilder, and much less credible.
One thing more, and I shall close. Doris showed me pictures of Ted. Several of them. He was unquestionably the man I glimpsed for a moment in the woods, the man who vanished when Lupine spoke to him.
He is, I would say, also the man I took to be Ieuan's parent.
I have told myself over and over that I must get out of this house, that I have stumbled upon a place where dreams walk by daylight and that those dreams may destroy me. But there's the money, and I have been so poor for so long.
There is a terrible fascination, too. I am a scholar or I am nothing, Millie. I knew an elderly Jewish scholar at the University of Chicago, a Dr. Kopecky. He was robbed on the street, and surrendered his wallet and his watch without a struggle; but when the gang of juveniles who had surrounded him tried to take his bag, containing one old book and his notes, he fought them all.
Perhaps you understand.
I hope you are well and feel certain you must be more beautiful than ever. For me you are an anchor of sanity in a world gone mad. Please, please write again.
Forever your friend,
Bax ;
Number 19
THE PROFESSIONAL
Mr. Dunn:
My name you will have gotten from my stationery, and the skills I proffer as well. Your sister-in-law is my client. She has described your difficulties in detail, and I have warned her--as I warn you--that you stand in grave danger. Mrs. Dunn suggested I contact you psychically. I mean to act upon her suggestion, but it seems best to write you first in order that you may prepare.
From what Mrs. Dunn says, your home is a node. It may well be possessed. I am an experienced exorcist, certified by the International Occult Council, A.S.P. My fees are reasonable, and refundable in the unlikely event of client dissatisfaction. I cannot specify an exact amount without first inspecting your premises, but my fees typically run between $500 and $5,000. Because your home is more than 100 miles distant, you would also be required to compensate me for travel expenses. (Non-refundable.)
Should you wish to engage me, you may write me or reach me at the number above.
But you need not. Rest assured, you and I shall soon be in psychic contact.
Yours truly,
Mrs. O. Pogach
"Madame Orizia"
Number 20
A VERY STRANGE HOUSE
Dear Geo
rge:
Your gracious wife dropped me a note the other day saying you planned to come here. That is why I have not written you sooner. You have not; thus I feel I should write you now to say that I understand entirely. Your career must keep you exceedingly busy. Nose to the grindstone and all that.
It has been a terrible disappointment just the same. How I would love to see you! I would employ my newfound wealth to pay you a visit if I thought you would receive me. You called the police last time, remember? It was profoundly embarrassing, and they held me for most of the day. I only hope that time has relaxed your edgy reflexes.
Interesting events have taken place here. Have I told you about old Nick? I feel certain that I told you (was it in my last?) that I intended to inspect the Skotos property with Doris. We did, had a good dinner afterward, and spent a pleasant evening.
When I returned home this morning, I discovered that old Nick had been busy in my absence. An Oriental rug now covers most of my living-room floor. There is a table in the dining room, and the escritoire in which I found my coins and this paper lords over an adjacent room.
"I trust you approve, sir?" he said. "I hoped you might find this more comfortable."
I said that I certainly did, and asked as casually as I could what he had done with the mattress.
"Returned it to a bed, sir. The one we installed in the master bedroom. I--um . . ."
I felt sure that he had found the money. "Yes?"
"We have no sheets as yet, sir. Nor blankets of the correct size. I have, um, selected a few of each from our attic, sheets as well as blankets which I hope will suit, sir. They are dusty, however. I have washed a few, sir, and dried a blanket." He coughed. "Only the one blanket thus far."
"I understand. Might I have a look at the master bedroom?"
"Certainly, sir. But you must make allowances. As I hope you will, sir. I have scarcely begun."
"Let me see it," I said, "and I'll tell you." Do I have to explain that I was worried about that mattress, George? I was. Worried sick.
