Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories

by Alan Dean Foster

  She knelt, opened it all the way.

  There were eight large tins inside sitting on two shelves. Each was wrapped in what looked like brown rice paper or thin leather but was neither. In fine, bold script across the front of each someone had written:

  SPECIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially For DR. WALTER SCOTT

  Under this were the various blend names: Liz Granger, Virginia Violet, and so on.

  She pulled one tin out, examined it patiently. That was all. No address, no telephone number, nothing. She went over each tin carefully, with identical results. Just SPE­CIAL BLEND, Prepared Especially for . . . and the blend name. Nothing to indicate who prepared it, where it came from.

  The paper on the final tin was slightly torn. She han­dled it carefully and inspected the tear. Something was stamped into the metal of the tin, almost concealed by the wrapping. Gently she peeled a little aside.

  Yes, an oval stamp had been used on the tin. They probably all carried it. It was hard to make out; the stamp was shallow.

  Peter van Eyck, the Smoke Nook . . . and an address right on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  She found a little scrap of paper, wrote down the name and address. Then she smoothed the torn paper (or was it leather?) down as best she could, replaced the tin on its shelf, and shut the panel. It snapped closed with an­other click of the old‑fashioned latch.

  Hollywood Boulevard is just like a movie set. All front and no insides or back. Marching south from the Holly­wood hills, you encounter Sunset Boulevard next, then Santa Monica. For much of its length‑life Santa Monica Boulevard is like the back of a movie set. A street where all the storefronts, you're certain, have their faces to the alleys and their backsides to the boulevard.

  Almost, she was convinced she'd misread the address. But on the third cruise past she spotted it. It was just a door in an old two‑story building.

  She pulled around the corner, managed to slither in between a new panel truck and an old Cadillac.

  The door was open, the stairs inside reasonably clean. At the top of the landing she looked left, went right. She knocked on number five once and walked in. The over­powering, pungent odor of tobacco hit her immediately. Bells on the door jangled for a second time as she closed it.

  Someone in the back of the room said, "Just a min­ute!" Twice that later, the proprietor appeared.

  Short, fat, a fringe of hair running all around his head from chin, to cheeks, into sideburns, over the ear and around the back, like a cut‑on‑the‑dotted‑line demarca­tion.

  At least in his sixties, but most of the wrinkles were still fat wrinkles, not age wrinkles. His voice was smooth, faintly accented. He smiled.

  "Well! If I had more clients like you, young lady, I might not consider retiring."

  "Thanks. Anyhow," she said, "you can't retire, at least not until tonight. I'm here to buy a birthday present for a very special friend."

  The owner put on a pleased expression. "What does he like, you tell me. Imported cigars? Pipe tobacco? Snuff?" He winked knowingly, an obscene elf. "Perhaps something a little more unusual? Mexican, say, or Tai­wanese?"

  "And the opium den in the attic." She smiled back. "No, I'm afraid not. My friend buys his tobacco from you regularly‑"

  "He has good taste."

  "‑a special blend you make for him."

  "My dear, I make special blends for many people, and not only here in Los Angeles. It's a fine art, and young people today . . . " He sighed. "Some of my best cus­tomers, then names would startle you. Who is your friend?"

  "Dr. Walter Scott."

  Smile, good‑bye. Grin, vanished. Humor, to another universe.

  "I see." All of a sudden he was wary of her. "Does the doctor know that you are doing this?"

  "No. I want to surprise him."

  "I daresay." He looked at his feet. "I am afraid, dear lady, I cannot help you."

  None of this made any sense. "Why not? Can't you just . . . blend it or whatever else it is you do? I don't need it till next week."

  "You must understand, dear lady, that this is a very special blend. I can prepare most of it. But one ingredi­ent always stays the same, and this Dr. Scott always sup­plies himself. It's like saffron in paella, you know. Without the tiny pinch of saffron, you have nothing, soup. Without the doctor's little additive . . ." He shrugged.

  "Haven't you tried to find out what it is for yourself?" she pressed.

  "Of course. But the doctor; he only smiles. I don't blame him for protecting the secret of his blend. Such a marvelous sweetness it gives the smoke, I tell you!" The tobacconist shook his head, fringe bobbing. "No, I can­not help you. Excuse me." He headed for the back of the room.

  "Well, I like that!" She walked out the door, paused halfway down the stairs. Odd. Oh, well. She'd buy him that antique hurricane lamp he'd admired in Ports o' Call.

  It was raining as she drove out to the house. Wednes­days he worked late, and she was sure he could use some company. She shivered deliciously. So could she.

  The Pacific Coast Highway was a major artery. Thanks to the rain and fog, the number of four‑wheeled corpus­cles was greatly reduced tonight. Typical southern Cali­fornia rain: clean, cold, tamer than back east.

  She let herself in quietly.

  Walt was sticking another log into the fireplace. He was sucking on the usual pipe, a gargoylish meerschaum this time. After the wet run from the driveway the fire was a sensuous, delightful inferno, howling like a chained orange cat.

  She took off the heavy, wet coat, strolled over to stand near the warmth. The heat was wonderful. She kissed him, but this time the fire's enthusiasm wasn't matched.

  "Something wrong, Walt?" She grinned. "Mrs. Nor­ris giving you trouble about her glands again?"

  "No, no, not that," he replied quietly. "Here, I made you a ginger snap."

  The drink was cool and perfect as always.

  "Well, tell me, then, what is it?" She went and curled up on the couch. The fire was a little too hot.

  He leaned against the stone mantel, staring down into the flames. The only light in the room came from the fireplace. His face assumed biblical shadows. He sighed.

  "Emma, you know what I think of women who stick their noses in where they shouldn't."

  "Walt?"

  Damn, he must have noticed the new tear in the to­bacco tin wrapping!

  "I don't know what you mean, darling." The hand­some profile turned to full face.

  "You've been in my tobacco, haven't you?"

  Ginger snap, tickling as it went down.

  "Oh, all right. I confess, darling. Yes, I was in your precious horde."

  There was more than a hint of mild curiosity in his voice. It seemed to come from another person entirely. She pressed back into the couch and shivered. It was the sudden change in temperature from outside, of course.

  "Gee, Walt, I didn't think you'd be so . . . so upset."

  "Why?" he repeated. His eyes weren't glowing. Just reflection from the fire, was all.

  She smiled hopefully. "I was going to surprise you for your birthday. I wanted to get you some of your special blend and really surprise you. Don't think I'm going to tell you what I got you, now, either!"

  He didn't smile. "I see. I take it you didn't obtain my blend?"

  "No, I didn't. I went to your tobacco place . . ."

  "You went to my tobacco place?" he echoed.

  "Yes, on Santa Monica. The address was under the paper or whatever that wrapping is." She blinked, shook herself. Was she that tired? She took another sip of the drink. It didn't help. In fact, she seemed to grow drows­ier.

  "That nice Mr. . . . I can't remember his name . . . he . . . excuse me, Walt. Don't know why I'm so . . . sleepy."

  "Continue. You went to the shop."

  "Yes. The owner said he couldn't make any of your blend for me because (fog) you always brought one of the (so tired) ingredients yourself and he didn't know what it was. So I had to get you something else."

&nb
sp; "Why?" he said again. Before she could answer, "Why must you all know everything? Each the Pan­dora." He took up a poker, stirred the fire. It blazed high, sparks bouncing drunkenly off the iron rod.

  She finished the drink, put the glass down on the table. It seemed to waver. She leaned back against the couch.

  "I'm sorry, Walt. Didn't think you'd get so . . . up­set."

  "It's all right, Emma."

  "Funny . . . about those . . . tins. Eight of them. Two were . . . named Anna Mine and Sue deBlakely."

  "So." He fingered the poker.

  "Well," she giggled, "weren't those the . . . names of your two ex‑wives?"

  "I'm very sentimental, Emma."

  She giggled again, frowned. Falling asleep would spoil the whole evening. Why couldn't she keep her damn eyes open?

  "In fact . . . all your blends had female . . . names."

  "Yes." He walked over to her, stared down. His eyes seemed to burn . . . reflection from the fire again . . . and his face swam, blurred. "You're falling asleep, Emma. " He moved her empty glass carefully to one end of the table. It was good crystal.

  "Can't . . . understand it. So . . . tired . . ."

  "Maybe you should take a little rest, Emma. A good rest."

  "Rest . . . maybe . . . " His arms cradled her.

  "Lie here, Emma. Next to the fire. It'll warm you." He put her down on the carpet across from the fronting brick. The flames pranced hellishly, anxious, searing the red‑hot brick interior.

  "Warm . . . hot, Walt," she mumbled sleepily. Her voice was thick, uncertain. "Lower it?"

  "No, Emma." He took the poker, jabbed and pushed the logs back against the rear of the alcove. Funny, she'd never noticed how big it was for such a modest house.

  Her eyes closed. There was silence for several min­utes. As he knelt and reached for her, they fluttered open again just a tiny bit.

  "Walt . . ." Her voice was barely audible, and he had to lean close to hear.

  ". . .Yes?"

  "What . . . special ingredient?"

  There was a sigh before he could reply, and her eyes closed again. Long moments. He tossed two more logs on the fire, adjusted them on the iron. Then he knelt, grabbed her under the arms. Her breathing was shallow, faint.

  He put his mouth close to her ear, whispered.

  "Ashes, my love. Ashes."

  MOTHER THUNDER

  Jessica Amanda Salmonson and I have corresponded for years, infrequently but always with respect and interest. In addition to writing her own stories, Jessica is a busy editor. When I learned that she was putting together an anthology of stories utilizing mythological themes, I was immediately interested.

  Mythology always fascinated me in school, but all we were ever exposed to by the Anglocentric American sec­ondary curriculum was the mythlore of Greece and Rome. If the teacher was especially well read and prepared, we might also receive a dollop of Norse gods, those individ­uals so famed today for .their appearances in Marvel comics. No residuals go to Valhalla or Asgard. Only when l left college did I begin to find out about mankind's wealth of invention, of the tales and fantasies of the rest of my brethren.

  One thing I discovered was that mythologies exist to be expanded upon. The dreamtime could be my time, too. Tales twice told in Tanzania were as pointed and relevant as those spilled on the streets of Topeka. When it comes to storytelling, the family of man is wholly egalitarian. I think my embroidery of reality would be as welcome in a yurt in the Gobi as in New York.

  What first drew me to the Inca, however, was not their mythology but their tragedy. If only, I told myself as I read the sad story of their destruction by the conquista­dores, they had possessed writing. If only they'd known the wheel. If only they'd had matching cavalry or gun­powder. If only they'd had . . .

  No one paid any attention to Crazy Yahuar until the Silver Men came.

  "They have crossed the river," the exhausted chasqui told the Priest. "Even now they are working their way up the mountain."

  "They must not come here," the old Priest muttered. "This is the most sacred place of the Tahuantinsuyu, the Four Corners of the World. They must not come here." He pulled his feathered cloak tighter around his shoul­ders. The wind was cold on the mountaintop.

  "The Silver Men go where they wish." The teacher/noble who stood on the Priest's right hand had seen much these past twenty years. He had become a realist.

  "Why dream on, old man? We have three choices: we can submit, we can run away into the jungle with Manco Inca; or we can die here. Myself, I chose my own grave, and it is here. This is where my grandfather began, and this is where his line will end."

  "If we pray to the Sun," the old Priest began. The teacher interrupted him angrily:

  "It is too late for prayers, Priest. We have forgotten what they were for, have forgotten too much for prayers to be of help now. Prayers did not help Atahuallpa. The Silver Men strangled him, ransom or no ransom, prayers or no prayers. Give me' one of their armored long‑legged llamas to ride upon and one of their fire‑weapons to fight with, and keep your prayers:" He turned his attention to the panting chasqui.

  "How many, post runner?"

  The chasqui held out a quipu, and the teacher studied the number and location of the intricate knots tied in the rope. "Too many. You have done your job, runner. I will not hold you here. What would you do?"

  "Return to my family." The chasqui was still breath­ing hard from the long run up the mountainside.

  "Go then, if you can avoid the Silver Men, and live long."

  "Thank you, noble." The runner turned and fairly flew down the steep trail, anxious to flee the sacred city. He had heard of the barbarity of the Silver Men, of the atroc­ities they had visited even upon great Cuzco, and he had no desire to be martyred along with those who might choose to try to defend the citadel. Better it be left to Priests and nobles.

  The old Priest let out a sigh. "The Empire is coming to an end. It is too bad."

  "Too bad has nothing to do with it, Priest." The teacher made no attempt to conceal his bitterness. "I blame Huascar and Atahuallpa. If those two brothers had not spent the energy and wealth of the realm fighting one another over the succession, we would already have driven the Silver Men back into the sea, despite all their strange weapons and ways. Now, it is too late." He turned and gazed past the lower terraces, toward the first wall of the city.

  "So now I shall die here, not for the Empire but for my ancestors and my oaths, which is all that has been left to me. What will you do, Priest?"

  "I am bid to serve Inti, the Sun. I will pray to him for guidance, and if it be his will, I will perish in the temple at the time he chooses for me."

  "Bah. Better to die fighting. Still, I am no priest, and I should not tell a priest how to die. Each must do what each must do."

  "That is the law, my son." The Priest put a withered hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I cannot fight with you, but I can pray that you fight well."

  "I accept your prayers, old man. They worked in the past, though the past is done. I go to organize the stone stingers."

  He turned and started up the steps, leaving the Priest to stare worriedly down the mountainside. The morning sun glinted sharply off the distant white worm that was the Urubamba River. How soon, he wondered? How soon before the sunlight shines off the armor of the Silver Men? If only he could remember the old ways, the old magic.

  But so much had been forgotten since the first Inca had started the Empire. ,

  "We will confront them at the steepest part of the trail," the teacher told the assembled band of farmer­-warriors. "If we cannot hold them back there, then we have no chance. Their long‑necked llamas will have trou­ble climbing that place."

  "A steep climb will not slow their fire arrows," said a voice from the back.

  "Are you afraid of fire, Tamo?" asked the teacher. The man who'd spoken lapsed into silence.

  "We are ready, then, save for the Priests and the chil­dren." The teacher pr
epared to step down from the speaking stone when another voice broke in:

  "What of Yahuar?"

  The teacher had to smile. "Crazy Yahuar? Let him play his pipes in peace. Perhaps the Silver Men will let him live. I have heard that they too have tolerance for the mad. Let Yahuar remain with the Priests and the Chosen Women, where he belongs."

  Laughter rose from the warriors, and the teacher was glad. Now when the time came the men of the city would raise their legs at the Silver Men in defiance. If the goes willed it, the teacher would make a drinking cup of his enemy's skull. If not, at least they could die like the true children of Viracocha.

  At the farthest end of the city, Crazy Yahuar sat on the lower steps of the temple, which were coated with the tears of the moon, and played his panpipes. Children attended him, still unaware of the importance of the com­ing battle. Women mocked him or smiled sadly at his innocence as they hurried to stock food and water for the men. The priests ignored him, busy making preparations for death.

  Yahuar sat on the silver and played and smiled. And watched the sky across the gorge of the Urubamba. It was clouding quickly. Rain pelted his cheeks, ran in drops down his hooked nose. The haunting five‑tone notes of his panpipes drifted out over the edge of the cliffs and down into the mists that rose from the roaring river.

  "Filthy country, Capitan." The soldier tugged insis­tently at the reins of his reluctant mount while keeping a wary eye on the heights above.

  "Filthy but rich, eh, Rinaldo?" Capitan Borregos scrambled to the crest of a protruding boulder and turned to survey the war party strung out down the mountain­side.

  He had fifty fighting men, twenty arquebusiers, and three hundred Indian auxiliaries. They had left the can­non at the bottom of the gorge since the men had rebelled at the prospect of hauling the six‑pounder up the precip­itous slope. Well, with any luck they'd have no need of it, and if worse came to worst, it could shield any retreat.

  But Borregos had no intention of retreating. He'd worked too long to pry these men away from the com­forts of conquered Cuzco. It had been less difficult than he'd expected, though.