Storeys from the Old Hotel

by Gene Wolfe

  … When I reached the hilltop there was more light, though no moon shone. I looked about me and to one side saw points of light, undying sparks, as though a mountain stood there, and many men with torches scaled its sides. To my other hand I could see starlight on water and I knew, without knowing how I knew, that it was the river and safety upon the farther side. All about were the low, steep hills.

  I could see no pursuers, but the humming noise waxed ever louder and I feared it without knowing why. I do not believe, Supremacy, that I would have felt so in the country of men; in the spirit land some enchantment draws away a warrior’s blood, leaving a cold juice supporting life but not valor.

  I was about to run again when I spied something glittering at my feet. It was a piece of red glass-such stuff as the priests use to form pictures in the windows of temples. It was broken and useless; yet before I could reflect on what I did I had snatched it up and thrust it among other such litter in a bag of knotted grass I had slung about my shoulders. I cannot tell why I did so foolish a thing or why I felt so vain about it, like a country wench with a new ribbon.

  A night fog was coming up from the river now and filling the valleys. Though it brought forth foul odors from the soil at my feet, I blessed it, knowing it would conceal me.

  The hills were lower and the fog thicker as I fled from valley to valley and I knew the river must be close by, but every breath burned in my chest and my steps stumbled. The roaring of the blood in my ears was so loud that I did not hear another running in the valley I crossed until he was nearly upon me. He was naked as I, and his long hair hung down in a filthy mat, but I would have kissed him as a brother had there been time, so happy was I to see a human face in that grim land.

  He shouted to me-words I had never heard before, yet they were as clear to me as West Speech—“This way! You are lost. Follow me!”

  He led me through a narrow crevice in the hills, which I had passed without seeing a moment before. On the other side the ground sloped cleanly down to the river and I could see the long white arch of a bridge that spanned it. We were almost upon it before I saw that it was the bridge of the troll, and then I knew fear indeed, and would have turned back had not my companion gripped me by the arm.

  “A troll watches this bridge,” I said, but the clear words I formed in West Speech issued from my lips as guttural gruntings. He seemed to understand, however, and pointed to a low strong-house set almost at the water’s edge.

  “He is there, but he cares nothing for us. He is a sky watcher. See the Eye?”

  I looked again and saw that there was a great eye of metal lace above the strong-house; it turned slowly as though it searched for something, but its gaze was always toward the stars. Then the bridge was filled with light and the humming noise grew to a roar.

  We ran faster than ever; there was just time enough to get clear of the bridge and scramble up a little rise on the other side before they were upon us.

  I halted there. We had run before them as vermin run; now I, at least, would stand as a man and a West Lands warrior should. My companion mewed with fright, but I heard laughter also and it was the fell laughter of trolls.

  They were coming toward us faster than any beast could bear them, mounted on shining things which roared without pause and whose single eyes glared with the yellow light I had seen. They halted at the foot of the knoll on which we stood and the roar of their mounts subsided to a murmur. The faces of trolls are not as the faces of men, yet I could see the triumph on every face and I recall thinking that thus the faces of men must look to a hunted beast who turns to make his stand.

  One of the trolls dismounted then, and my gaze was drawn to him. He was larger than any forest devil and the muscles stood out under his skin and flickered as he moved. Had he been but a beast he would have been such as to chill the heart of the boldest hunter, but he was no mere animal. His eyes were of the yellow-green of seacoal fire and blazed more fiercely—level as a man’s and filled with terrible wisdom. Strangely wrought weapons hung from his belt, and when I looked upon them, memories that were not mine came rushing into my mind, and I seemed to see naked men and women and children rent to pieces as if by thunderbolts.

  By force of will I tore my gaze from them and looked about me lest I be taken from behind; and as I looked the other trolls seemed to fade and become less real, so that I knew they were but the creatures of his art where in truth only his spirit and mine stood alone.

  I lifted my green stick as he came toward me. It was a mere wand still to my eyes, but it had an honest weight in my hand and light shone along the back as though it were steel. Then in an instant all I saw was gone. I stood in the troll’s den once more, swaying and grasping my true sword with a weak hand. The troll was before me still, older now, and bereft of the terrible weapons which had dangled from his belt before.

  Then he laughed loud and deep, and I was again on the hillock. Scarce able to stand, I lashed his great arm with my wand and it snapped half off; as he grasped me the darkness closed upon me once more as it had on the bridge, but I struck him with the shattered stub of my stick until I knew no more.

  When I woke again the troll’s cave was better lit than when I had previously seen it, though light no longer rose from the pool, Instead a great brightness issued from a silver wand no longer than a man’s finger which lay in the mud close to Dokerfins. I had seen too much that day to fear anything however strange, and plucking it from the muck, I used its light to search out the hole.

  My sword I found in Dokerfins’ hand, it and he both drenched in the troll’s dark blood; the grim mock-man himself lay not much farther off, all cut about with gaping wounds from which the blood no longer welled. At the first sight I thought it strange to see that the point had never told, but soon I understood all, as you, Supremacy, wiser than ever I, no doubt do now. For when Dokerfins awoke he was as one deep in drink or drug, babbling and unheeding. Then I knew that his body had but fought here the battle my own spirit had won from the troll in the spirit land, and his soul was scarce returned, alone and affrighted, to its proper place. That his untenanted husk could not use my sword’s point was thus explained, for the sword’s spirit was maimed when it broke in my hand.

  From the pool’s dimness I knew the day must be fast fading. It would be an evil venture to try to swim from that place in darkness, so taking the circlet the troll had worn and holding the mewing fayman as best I could I dived into the pool to free us or die, as might be. My spirit-broken blade I left to watch the troll rot; who would dare trust such a thing in war?

  When I became aware again the sun was full in my face. Oh that blessed sun of Carson!

  Can you understand what it meant to me to know I was no longer in that foul abscess under the riverbank? I will not bore you by describing the pleasure of the natives when they found us on the following day. My host—his name is Garth, have I mentioned that before?—had killed the traki in what he calls “a great spirit fight” which I take to mean that it was a sort of contest of wills as well as a physical battle, which with the traki I can well believe. Even knowing that the life of an intelligent being has been deliberately extinguished by him, I cannot feel the repulsion which perhaps I should, but it does somewhat disturb me that he seems to consider me a sort of squire or assistant in what he believes to have been a very creditable deed. At least it has given me useful prestige with the natives.

  Now for the really amazing part of this adventure of mine. Garth brought back the metal circlet the traki had worn. When I examined it I found that the inscription on it is in characters similar to those found on Ceta II. The same is true of the carvings on the bridge. I thought the poor traki’s talk of a great city madness, and so it was, no doubt; but there exist shades of derangement. One is to believe in the reality of things wholly fictitious. Another, very characteristic of the old, is to hold in the mind’s present the shadows of the now-gone-forever. What might we not have learned from the traki had not Garth killed it?

 
; Yours for learning, Morton M. Finch, Ph.D.

  The cold river water seated Dokerfins’ spirit in him aright while it washed the troll’s blood from his skin and garments, so that when we reached the grassy bank at last he knew not how he came there and I must needs tell him all that had occurred and of his help in the battle, though I misdoubt he understood. The servants tell me that since that time he speaks a strange tongue abed of nights and beats with his arms upon the sleeping furs as a man kills snakes with a staff; no doubt the troll’s spirit often troubles his in dreams, as it sometimes does mine.

  The silver wand of light I gave him as a reward, for he swore that it was his. Doubtless he came upon it in the troll’s cave.

  The coronet the troll wore, which I took from his brow with my own hand, I send to you by the courier who bears this letter. It is a fair thing; but I would, if I dared, advise you, Supremacy, against wearing it—though it will fit a man, for it became less in compass as I drew it from the troll’s head, by what power I know not. It is a fell thing still, and made the world grow strange when I wore it, and all men seem lower to me than beasts. I was ill and dizzy when I snatched it off.

  Such is the tale of my travels thus far. I am proud that the glory of the West Lands is enhanced in Jana since the death of the troll. Dokerfins, whom I bore for mercy’s sake from the den of the troll, has become a clever friend and useful, his wit good though his thought strange. He is so intent upon digging into old places that I would think him a ghoul if he did not do it with such innocence. He wished mightily to have the troll’s crown, though I kept its secret from him, but I think it better far to give it to a stronger mind.

  Nammue the scribe hath

  written this for the Lord

  Garth, the Son of Garth,

  and Watcher of the North

  Marches.

  FROM: Prof. John Beatty

  Edgemont Inst., Earth

  TO: Dr. M. M. Finch

  UNworld spcrft MOTH (Reg #387760)

  Sorry to be so slow to write, Morton, but I have been busy as ten sub-instructors at theme time doing a new symposium for Archaeological Worlds. Some of the people who want to write in this kind of thing are such asses!

  About your native, this Garth. Morton, let an old friend warn you; it is always a temptation for someone situated as you are to strike a lofty pose and impress the natives. “Me great magician, come from star in silver boat.” And all that. But, Morton, sooner or later he is bound to discover that you are only flesh, even as he. Don’t carry on in such a way that this comes to him as too great a shock; he may turn on you then if you have. Take him into your confidence at times; explain the simpler principles of what you are doing and allow him to make a minor decision at times—whether to camp or go on, which of a group of similar sites to tackle first—that kind of thing. Fear and awe alone will not suffice indefinitely.

  Meanwhile, would you please send more detail on the markings and pictures. Rubbings and photographs as soon as you can get them and arrange for civilized mail service. I had to write my article for Arch. Worlds (the one that stirred up all this symposium rubbish) on the very sketchy information in your letter; how sketchy it was you will note in the clipping I am having transmitted with this. I gave you full credit, as you will see. It is the paragraph beginning: “I sent an investigator …”

  Hastily,

  J. Beatty

  JB/sl

  From the Desk of Gilmer C. Merton

  DEAR MISS MORGAN:

  No, you don’t know me or anything about me-I got your name from Literary Marketplace. My own name is Gilmer C. Merton, and I’m a writer. I say that I am one, even though I haven’t sold anything yet, because I know I am. I have written a sci-fi novel, of which I enclose the first chapter and an outline of the remainder (is that a dirty word?) of the book.

  Please understand me, Miss Morgan: I have written the whole book, and can send you complete ms. as soon as you ask for it. Will you represent me?

  Sincerely yours,

  Gilmer C. Merton

  Dear Mr. Merton:

  Please send the rest of Star Shuttle. Enclose $10.00 (no stamps) to cover postage and handling.

  Yours truly,

  Georgia Morgan

  Dear Miss Morgan:

  Enclosed please find the remainder of my book Star Shuttle and a Postal Money Order for ten dollars. I hope you enjoy it.

  You can have no idea how delighted I am that you are sufficiently interested in my book to wish to read the rest. I know something of your reputation now, having asked the Chief Assistant Librarian here in No. Velo City. It would be wonderful to have you for my agent.

  Sincerely,

  Gilmer C. Merton

  Dear Mr. Merton,

  I will definitely handle Star Shuttle. When you sign and return the enclosed letter of agreement (I have already signed; please retain the last copy for your files), you will be a client of the GEORGIA MORGAN LITERARY AGENCY. Note that we do not handle short fiction, articles, or verse (Par. C.). I would, however, like to see any other book-length manuscripts, including nonfiction.

  Cordially,

  Georgia Morgan

  P.S. Don’t say sci-fi. That is an obscenity. Say SF.

  Dear Miss Morgan:

  Let me repeat again how much I appreciate your taking on my book. However, I wish you had told me where you intend to market it. Is that possible?

  Your letter of agreement (top three copies) is enclosed, signed and dated as you asked. Let me repeat how happy

  I am to be your client.

  Sincerely,

  Gilmer C. Merton

  Dear Gil,

  I sent your Star Shuttle to the best editor I know, my great and good friend Saul Hearwell at Cheap Drugstore Paperbacks, Inc. Now I am happy to report that Saul offers an advance of $4300.00 against CDPI’s standard , contract. I discussed the advance with him over lunch at Elaine’s (not to worry, Saul paid), but he says CDPI’s present financial position, though not critical, is somewhat weak, and he is not authorized to offer more than the standard advance. (Actually, that is four thou.; I got him up three hundred.) I could be wrong, Gil, but with a first novel, I don’t think you will get a better offer than this anyplace, market conditions being as they are. The “standard” contract is enclosed, as slightly altered by yrs. trly. (Note that I was able to hold onto 30% of video game rights.) I advise you to sign it and return all copies to me soonest.

  Cordially,

  Georgia

  P.S. You will receive half the advance on signing.

  Dear Georgia,

  I have signed and dated all copies of the contract for my book. They are enclosed. Good job!

  You will be happy to note that I have borrowed enough on my signature to trade in my old Underwood for a used word processor. (These are used words, ha, ha!) Interest is eighteen percent, but there is no penalty for early payment, and when I get the two thousand one hundred and fifty dollars it will be easy enough to pay off the rest of the loan, and I understand that Hijo and several other horror-genre shockers were written on this machine before Steven E. Presley’s untimely death. With the help of this superb machine (as soon as I learn to run the damn thing) I hope to make much faster progress on new book, Galaxy Shuttle.

  Sincerely,

  Gil Merton

  Dear Gil,

  This is going to come as something of a shock to you, but I have just had a long phone conversation with Saul Hearwell, during which we discussed what Saul insists on referring to as “your problem.” Meaning yours, Gil, not mine, though you are my problem too, of course, or rather your problems are my problems.

  Star Shuttle is bylined “Gilmer C. Merton,” and Saul does not consider that catchy enough. Of course, I suggested “Gil Merton” right away. Saul feels that is an improvement, but not a big enough one. (Am I making myself clear?) Anyway, Saul would like to see you adopt a zippier pen name, something along the lines of Berry Longear or Oar Scottson Curd. Whatever you like, but please, not Ro
bert A. anything. (Gil Donadil might be nice.???) The choice is yours, to be sure; but let me know soonest so I can get back to Saul.

  Cordially,

  Georgia

  P.S. I rather hate to bring up this delicate matter, Gil, but you will get $1835.00 and not the $2150.00 you mention. In other words, my commission will be taken out. And don’t forget you’ll have to pay taxes on the residue.

  Dear Georgia,

  This is a wonderful contraption, but Steven Presley seems to have programed it with some odd subroutines. I’ll tell you in detail when I’ve figured out what all of them are.

  The new byline I’ve chosen is Gilray Gunn. What do you think of it? If you like it, please pass it along to Mr. Hearwell.

  I had assumed I paid you your commissions. Rereading our letter of agreement, I see that you receive all payments and deduct your part before passing mine on to me. I see the sense of that—it saves me from writing a check and so forth.

  Sincerely,

  Gil Merton

  (Wolf Moon)

  Dear Gil,

  Good news! Saul likes your new byline, and I’ve already got a nibble from Honduras on Star Shuttle. Rejoice ! When will I be seeing Galaxy Shuttle?

  Cordially,

  Georgia

  Dear Miss Morgan:

  Thank you for your recent communication. I have altered the title of Galaxy Shuttle to Come, Dark Lust. It is to be bylined Wolf Moon, as I have indicated on the enclosed ms. See to it.