“Do not drink it,” Kryzanek said in a firm voice. “Not a drop. It’s quite possibly a sleeping potion. We’ll miss our tide while Fort goes about his business. This man is not to be trusted. His sense of humor is positively sub-lunar.”
“Roger has an active imagination,” Fort said, “and he’s miffed that he owes me ten million in gambling debts.”
“Ten million!” Hampson cried.
“Accumulated over twelve years of play.”
“I suspect that he cheats,” Kryzanek said, “but I can’t make out how.”
St. Ives listened with only half an ear. He found that he coveted the unlikely house, which was built of rough-cut planks of a dark, tropical wood. Here and there sunlight shone through chinks between the boards, glowing around vines that crept in with their showers of purple blooms creating a sort of indoor bower. There was an enviable view of the sea cove through a broad window, the wall of the room built at the edge of a sheer cliff. The plesiosaur, St. Ives noted, had disappeared, but from this height he could see that the water in the cove was crystal clear, with a kelp bed beyond in the open sea.
Books on natural history—many familiar to St. Ives and many not—were stacked on a nearby table built from the same rough planks as the wall, with more on open-shelved cases, although the majority of the shelves were taken up with large, lidded jars in which floated an array of fish and small mammals—shrews and octopi sitting side-by-side, coiled adders, a fetal shark, prehistoric ganoid fishes, skinks and toads, the head of a small ape—hundreds of jars all in all, Fort evidently being an avid naturalist.
“You’re taken with my collection, Professor,” Fort said to him.
“Very much so, yes. What is this long, tentacled creature in the conical shell?”
“A straight-chambered cephalopod. I found him trapped in a deep, tidal pool in my own cove. Fished him out with a net. Can you guess the era?”
“Devonian, I’d say.”
“Right you are, although on this little paradise of ours many thousands of plants and animals avoided extinction. I wish only that I could have kept him alive. I’m not fond of killing things.”
“Nor am I, although it’s the lot in life of a naturalist.”
“True enough. Did you see the ichthyosaur sporting in the cove when you were coming up the hill?”
St. Ives stared at him for a moment, thinking of the crocodile-like creature in the bay. He had identified the plesiosaur, but an ichthyosaur! “I believe I did,” he said, “although I took it for some form of crocodile.”
“Similar toothy snout, but it appears to be more fish than lizard. A link of some sort, perhaps, between the aquatic mammals and the fishes. Would you like to go exploring?”
“He would not,” Kryzanek said. “We’ve no time for it.”
“Quite right,” Hampson said, taking Kryzanek’s side. St. Ives wondered whether Hampson had a Christian obligation to avoid looking too closely at the wonders roundabout them. They reeked of Darwinism. He wished that Kryzanek hadn’t used the word “devil” to describe Fort.
“You’re a lichen man, I believe,” Fort said.
“I am,” Hampson admitted, his face lighting up. Then it took on a suspicious cast. “How do you know?”
“I read of it in this very interesting periodical,” Fort said, holding out his hand. In it was an issue of The Graphic, young Finn Conrad’s favorite magazine. Hampson made no move to take it, so Fort handed it to St. Ives, who sat down now, caught up immediately in the mystery of the cover—an etching of a balloon ascent. There was a forest below the balloon, men in a clearing looking up, and above the balloon a sky with a shadowy cloud with a phantom wall visible within it—obviously the metaphoric curtain. A stream of water flowed out from within the cloud and fell away toward the Earth.
“What do you say to that, Professor?” Fort asked. “Racks your brain, doesn’t it? Knocks you for a wallop?”
St. Ives had nothing to say to it. He studied the balloon. The gondola of the balloon was the image of his own, with two men, one tall and one short, standing within, the taller man holding a telescope. He realized with a shock of amazement that emblazoned upon the balloon was the painting of the tell-tale carp. There was nothing similar about the balloon in the illustration; it was in fact an illustration of his very balloon. His mind groped for an explanation, but there was none.
“Take a look at the date on the magazine, sir,” Fort said, apparently enjoying this immensely.
“August, 1886,” St. Ives read aloud.
“Over a year from now!” Hampson cried. “Surely this is a hoax.”
“I can assure you it is not a hoax, Vicar,” Kryzanek said in a flat voice. “Mr. Fort is not attempting to practice upon you. What the Professor holds is an actual copy of the magazine. Perhaps we should get on with this, Charles,” he said tiredly. “The clock is ticking.”
“You pay too much attention to the clock,” Fort told him. “The clock is the first falsehood. No other instrument has caused humanity such pain and horror.”
“I have half a mind to pitch you out the window, sir,” Kryzanek said. “If we miss our tide, by God, my mind will wholly be made up. You’re merely toying with us. Admit it to my friends here, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m having too much fun to admit any such thing, Roger. You always were a sort of schoolmarm.” To St. Ives he said, “Have a look inside the front cover now, Professor.”
Inside lay a small Manila paper pocket, glued in. A slip of heavy paper with a date printed on it was slid into the pocket. The day and month read 19 June—yesterday’s date—but the year was 1906. St. Ives read it aloud for Hampson’s benefit, and then to Fort he said, “This is proof of nothing, sir. Anyone with a wheel ribbon stamp could produce it. There’s such a stamp in my own desk at home.”
“But anyone did not produce it, sir. It was the work of a very pleasant librarian…”
“…in the New York Public Library,” Kryzanek said, cutting him off. “For the love of God, Professor, I’ll make it clear to you before my head bursts. You are looking at an authentic issue of The Graphic, borrowed by our grinning friend from a lending library in the city of New York, which he visits whenever he desires. In fact, New York City is his home. He travels back and forth, as I’ve told you twice now, through an unlikely door in that wall.”
“Not quite true,” Fort said. “I rarely travel whenever I choose. My visits generally take place during the hours that the library is open to the public. Now and then I make an exception.”
“In a word, this magazine is impossible,” St. Ives said. “I don’t for a moment believe it.”
“Belief!” Fort said. “Belief is the second bugbear, to my mind, very nearly as fiendish as the clock on the wall. If you disbelieve in what you hold in your hand, then perhaps you’re dreaming.”
“Perhaps I am. It’s the simplest explanation for all of this.”
“Capital!” Fort said. “If this is a dream then you’re welcome to ride down the river in your gondola basket like Moses. That would be rare good fun in a dream. Not much fun if you weren’t dreaming, perhaps, once gravity had its way with you. Are you the sort of Galileo willing to go to the wall in the name of what you suppose to be true?”
“Not for this truth, no, sir.”
“Good man. Truth is a slippery eel at best.”
“Here’s the damned truth,” Kryzanek said. “I’ll put the case to you simply, Professor—the facts of the case. At this moment it is the year 1906 in the library accessed by this phenomenal door. The story illustrated upon the cover of that magazine has not yet been written. The author, one Jack Owlesby, is unaware that he will ever write such a story, let alone sell it to The Graphic. But he assuredly will, if in fact we depart this house immediately. If we do not, then he will know nothing at all of our sad story.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “In short,” he said, turning on Fort, his voice rising, “we have other windbags to attend to aside from the man who sits before u
s.” He stood up out of his chair, giving Fort a look as if he meant his comment to sting, but Fort waved him down again.
“The Professor’s curiosity is piqued, Roger. He has further questions. Rein in your impatience, man.” Fort picked up a walking stick that leaned against the table and banged it on the floorboards. There was the sound of footsteps, and the Chief and his five men came silently in through the door, no doubt summoned by Fort’s stick. Their looks were neither friendly nor hostile, although their very presence was ominous.
St. Ives realized that the carved wooden heads hanging around their necks was the image of Fort himself, which struck him as humorous for some reason. He hastily skimmed the magazine story, which told of the very adventure that he and Hampson were engaged in at present: the discovery of the standing stones, the aerial spring, the lungfish, the ascent. Even the story of Kryzanek’s wild flight across the meadow was there, richly illustrated. He found another illustration of this very room, with a reasonable facsimile of Fort himself, sitting in his chair and looking at a pocket-watch.
“You know the author, I believe, Professor,” Fort said.
“Quite well, yes, although not the illustrator, whose name I do not find here.”
“You yourself will give this magazine to Mr. Owlesby, so that it can be published in this particular issue.”
“Perhaps I will not,” St. Ives said.
“But you will, for Jack Owlesby must write out your adventure and sell it to The Graphic, and I must discover it in my research years hence so as to prepare for your arrival. I’ve brought in two of these chairs, you see, thinking of your own comfort. Suffice it to say that if you did not give the magazine to Mr. Owlesby, none of us would be sitting here now.”
“But if you keep us in this room yammering like a zoo ape we’ll have been too long at the fair,” Kryzanek said, “and then what? Do we turn to vapor?”
“Vapor? That seems unlikely,” Fort said, working the fingers of both hands together like a spider on a mirror and staring wide-eyed at Kryzanek. “I’ll make you a proposition,” he said to St. Ives. “As an alternative to fleeing away in your balloon, you might consider making your own truth. Why not seize this opportunity to extend your stay on my little island? I saw the glint of desire in your eyes when you were looking at my jars. What if I told you there were wooly mammoths within two day’s march? There are, you know—and even greater wonders. The opportunity will not come again if you leave now.”
St. Ives found that he could scarcely speak when he considered the suggestion. He forced temptation back into the shadows and said, “But the island will move on. Two days might well turn into two months or two years.”
“Or twelve years,” Kryzanek said. “I suggest that we take the opportunity to return to Aylesford, Professor. That opportunity will not come again unless you leave now. It’s time to slap the devil, Professor! Slap him down with your open palm!”
“Ignore the man,” Fort said. “Roger sees devils under every bush. We’re due to hover over China in several weeks. A month’s vacation spent on this lost paradise, Professor, and then away you go in your balloon after a pleasant holiday in the Orient. I can show you wonders, sir.”
Kryzanek stood up now, looking like thunder. “China! Humbug!” he cried. “There won’t be a breath of hydrogen left in the balloon a month from now, as you well know. I’ve hovered over China fourteen times, and yet here I am on this accursed island while salvation is staked down on the meadow, opportunity leaking away.” The six men by the door watched Kryzanek carefully.
Fort shrugged and removed his pocket-watch. He was fated to do so, St. Ives, realized, given the illustration in The Graphic. Fort held up his hand for silence, and then said mysteriously, “Sixty seconds to make up your mind, sir! Will you stay on, or will you walk away from adventure?” He smiled gleefully, counting down the seconds aloud, chuckling with laughter as if he saw a joke that no one else saw. He muttered out the descending numbers until he reached zero, shouting the word and pounding his hand down on the arm of his chair.
Nothing at all happened. Fort’s joke had apparently fizzled like a penny squib. St. Ives looked about him, his mind working. The silence stretched, and then, strangely, a breeze smelling of books and furniture oil blew into the room as a section of the wall opened inward—the hidden door. There was the sound of voices from beyond the door, and then through it, impossibly, strode St. Ives himself, a pistol in his hand, followed by Alice. He trained the pistol on Fort. “Enough,” he said. “Mr. Kryzanek will have his way now, Mr. Fort.”
There followed an utter silence in the room. Hampson sat with his mouth agape. The six savages, apparently unhappy at the sight of the pistol, trod back toward the door through which they had entered, and then turned and fled in a body. Fort’s smile was so broad that it disfigured his face.
St. Ives saw now that his future self—for that was the only explanation for what he was witnessing—was older, with a craggy face and grey in his hair—far too much grey. He looked tired, although not apparently unhappy. Alice was even more beautiful if anything than she was now. It came to him that there were two Alices at the moment, and he realized that the word “now” made little sense. Both of the newcomers were dressed in strange clothing—St. Ives in a plaid, double breasted suit with trousers that flared out and then in again at the ankles. Instead of a cravat he wore a small ribbon tie, more than moderately ridiculous. His hat was something like a homburg, but lower and with a garish band that matched his bow tie. Alice wore an evening gown with a peacock feather print and with pinfeathers from that same bird around the hem. She was hatless, with her hair curled atop her head.
“Alice St. Ives,” Fort said, standing up and extending his hand. “My name is Charles Fort. I’ve been expecting you. Your husband and I have already met, as you can see. I’m charmed to make your acquaintance at last.” To grey-haired St. Ives he said, “The pistol is not necessary, sir. I would never compel another man to do what he does not want to do. Life is full of hard choices, and I have merely endeavored to contrive an interesting example.”
“Do put away the pistol dear,” Alice said. “Mr. Fort shall not be shot.” And then to the still-sitting St. Ives and not his alter ego, who was smiling as broadly as Fort, she said, “We’re off to dine and then to the opera, dear. You bought the tickets as you promised. It’s my birthday tomorrow, you know. You haven’t forgotten?”
“Of course not,” St. Ives lied. He had never had any taste for the opera—a lot of howling to his mind—and he regularly forgot Alice’s birthday unless she invented a way to remind him, though she had never reminded him in this sort of outré fashion. As he had promised? Alice’s presence in the room trumped the wooly mammoth, and in spades. “We’d best be away,” St. Ives said hastily, nodding to his friends.
“Away!” Kryzanek said. “What an eminently sensible word under the circumstances. Charles, we take our leave. You’ll never see your ten million, you know. Not a penny of it.”
St. Ives stood up and nodded a goodbye to himself and to Alice, wondering whether it would be too farfetched if he were to kiss his wife. Hampson and Kryzanek were already out of their seats and heading toward the door, however, and the moment passed.
“You must play out your part, sir,” Fort said to St. Ives. “Take the magazine. The library won’t miss it.”
St. Ives did as he was told, although what he would do with the magazine he didn’t know. As he went out through the door, he glanced longingly back at Alice, who waved at him and winked. Even then she and the elder St. Ives were turning toward the passage, the door still standing open, getting out while the getting was good. He would do the same, whether or not it was his destiny to do so.
The three companions made their way down the stone stairs unhindered and unfollowed. Kryzanek set out at a trot when they reached the path into the jungle, and St. Ives and the Vicar, were close on his heels. They passed Kryzanek’s tree-house at a steady clip, Kryzanek not looking back, and wh
en they arrived at the meadow it was clear that the sun, high in the sky now, had swelled the gas in the balloon, which was acting like a living creature, jigging in the breeze, straining to be away.
“In you two go,” St. Ives shouted, giving Hampson the magazine. He dropped to his knees and laced his hands to give them a boost up, and then tied the mooring line around his waist for good measure before yanking out the stakes one by one and pitching them into the basket. He handed in the mallet, untied his life-line, and climbed aboard, the gondola settling lightly on the meadow with the added weight. Kryzanek was already dumping ballast, judiciously, thank heavens, and Hampson was once again intoning a prayer. The balloon rose, but the ground breeze swept them slowly toward the distant cliffs, Kryzanek cursing aloud and then apologizing to Hampson for the cursing.
“It’ll come around,” St. Ives said. “We know it will. Someone’s got to deliver the story to Jack, after all.”
“God between us and all harm,” Kryzanek said, as if this were no time for optimism.
“No man is fated to do what he does,” Hampson told them. “It’s the great glory of being God’s creation that we are able to change our minds, for better or ill.”
“That, sir, is currently my deepest fear,” Kryzanek said.
As if to further provoke Kryzanek, the balloon was still hauling them in a contrary direction, and despite St. Ives’s foolish we know we will, he wondered unhappily whether he had just recently had his last glimpse of Alice—his second last glimpse in the past couple of hours, both glimpses from a distance that was very nearly fabulous. He looked down at the forest canopy, at the colorful birds flitting from tree to tree. A clearing opened below, and loitering at the edge of it were two of Fort’s wooly mammoths, immensely shaggy creatures, each the size of a small cottage. St. Ives fetched out the telescope, thinking that it would take only a scant few minutes to descend for a closer look. As soon as the thought entered his mind, however, the balloon began to rise, and quickly.
The Further Adventures of Langdon St. Ives Page 36
