“Let go—!” she gasped. The automatic fired, sending a dazzling golden spear straight up into the air. There was a smell of ozone. Lucy fought furiously to bring the gun lower, to point it at the kings. But Eisenstein had her hand in a grip like a vise, and the weapon dropped to the ground.
At the same moment, they all heard the voice shouting, “Hey! Wait! Hey!”
Eisenstein let go of her. Prudently, he snatched up the automatic and dropped it into his pocket. Then he helped her up. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Lucy was not looking at him. Over the rise, just beyond the village, Leonard had appeared. He was scratched and dirty but apparently uninjured. He ran panting into the village and the people opened a way for him. Then, at last, they began to murmur; many of them smiled, and many touched their fists together in the sign of approval. The kings, too, smiled and nodded. Leonard shot a hasty glance at Eisenstein, and then looked at Lucy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he grinned apologetically. “Just a figure of speech. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. But it was worth it.”
Lucy did not begin to weep, as an Earth girl might have done, nor did she show any other visible sign of relief. Having assessed the situation—that Leonard was still alive—she adjusted to it at once. She said only, “I’m glad.”
Eisenstein said, “The widgits didn’t bother you. I don’t—”
“I’ll explain later. Excuse me.” Leonard turned to the brother kings. In intelligible Asak, but with an atrocious accent, he said, “Ardzil-le ur ghaurna tve. That’s right, isn’t it?”
The kings touched their fists together.
“Come on,” Leonard said to Eisenstein. “I’ve got a report to write out.”
“There was actually no clue at all in the ritual of the widgit society,” he said later, as they sat over coffee in Eisenstein’s office. “I’ll tell you about that in detail—as much as I can, anyway—some other time.”
“How did you get into it?” Eisenstein asked.
“Well, you know, we visited the village every day for the past week. I saw how the women dressed, in hoods and cloaks so that almost nothing could be seen of them. I made myself a similar outfit and wore it. Once in the village, it wasn’t hard to find out where the ceremony was being held: the chanting carried up the smoke holes.
“However, I didn’t last long; they caught me almost at once. They turned me over to the kings. One of the kings said that phrase to me—you know, the one you told me the night Lucy and I first went to the village. He said it three times, and I assumed that he meant they didn’t hold anything against me, but were simply punishing me because that was the law.
“They held me in one of the chambers until daybreak. Then they took me out into the tundra. We came to a big dark rock that rises right out of the earth, in a valley two or three miles away—I don’t know, I’m just guessing at the distance.”
“I know the rock,” Eisenstein said. “They call it the House of Tykh.”
“They tied me up with a leather cord that was knotted one hundred and twelve times. I know. I unknotted it. Then they left me alone.
“I was scared, you know, scared and cold. I had a pretty good idea that the widgits would be along in a minute or two. And the temperature must have been down around freezing, but I was sweating. At the same time, however, I was thinking about a lot of things. I was thinking, for instance, about what the widgits were for. Do you know what I mean? They couldn’t just exist, they had to have some place in the ecology of this region. I don’t know what it is, but I wondered whether it might not have something to do with pollinating these shrublike trees. Because—I’m no anthropologist, but it occurred to me that rituals around sacred animals most exist because the animals are important to the lives of the people who hold them sacred.”
Eisenstein snapped his fingers. “Of course! ‘The trees will die.’ One of the kings said that.”
“Mm. Might be worth investigating, then.”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, the widgits showed up within five minutes or so. At first, it was bad—very bad.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “I can understand how they drive men mad. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I’ve been in some pretty awful holes. Mosquitoes, black flies, gnats, chiggers, whatever you can think of, all rolled into one wouldn’t touch them. They crawled all over me; I inhaled them, swallowed them, had them in my ears, in my scalp, down my shirt collar. And they buzzed steadily, worse than the whine of a mosquito, worse than a swarm of hornets. It’s a high-pitched, aggravating note: indescribable.”
“All right, don’t try to describe it,” Eisenstein said, impatiently. “Get on.”
“Yes, they bite, too, you know, and the bites itched fiercely. But at the same time—it’s hard to explain, but—well, I don’t know if you know it, but I’m a very curious person.”
“I was aware of that,” Eisenstein said.
“Oh. Well, I more or less resigned myself to insanity and death, and I thought I might as well take advantage of the fact that I was surrounded by widgits, to study them. I began looking closely at them, to see just how they used the proboscis, how they walked, how they changed size. And you know—hm—I don’t know how to say this, exactly—”
He scratched his chin and laughed sheepishly. “They’re cute.”
“What?” Eisenstein shouted.
And, “Cute?” said Lucy in bewilderment.
“It’s a fact. They have a way of bobbing their heads at each other as if they were bowing. And they look up at you with those round solemn eyes, like drunken owls. I don’t know how you feel, but I’ve always loved owls: I think they’re funny and wise and pompous and foolish all at once. And these things looked like miniature owls.
“It’s funny, but as soon as I felt that way, suddenly the widgits were gone. The whole cloud of them soared away over the rock and disappeared.
“That jolted me. Then, you know, I began to think. Suppose the widgits react to an aura, a smell perhaps, or a telepathic emanation, or a change in body temperature—I don’t know what. But suppose whatever it is, it indicates to them their victims—or their enemies. If you like them and want them, you’re an enemy and they vanish. If you hate them and try to avoid them, you must be legitimate prey. That would be why the king had told me seriously, ‘Love even those who strike you.’ Makes sense, doesn’t it? And it explains why the people wanted to collect the widgits they could never find them, and even the few they got died in captivity—they were surrounded by unfriendly smells or thoughts and couldn’t escape from them.”
Eisenstein rubbed his face. “Then you mean, the Asa’s charm against widgits consists in their simply liking the things?”
“I know it. The reason I was so late is that I couldn’t resist practicing. First, I concentrated on hating them, and inside of two minutes they had come back. As soon as they arrived and began humming around my face, I thought how owlish and amusing they looked, and what nice pets they’d make. Away they went again. I did it half a dozen times, and then I suddenly realized that you would probably be looking for me. So I untied the hundred and twelve knots and began running back here.”
Eisenstein rocked back in his chair. “ ‘Love your enemy,’ “ he said. “A new sort of insect repellent.”
He got up. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said. “I’ll put a call in to Central Headquarters. You can tell them about it, and dictate your report through.”
Left alone, Leonard and Lucy sat in silence. Then, at last, he said uncomfortably, “I certainly don’t want to violate any more customs. Uh—what does one usually say to—er—to a girl who has no house?”
“Why,” Lucy said brightly, “it’s one more of those interesting parallels that Sam loves to find in our two civilizations. You say, ‘May I kiss you?’ “
<
~ * ~
AVRAM DAVIDSON
Stories by Avram Davidson are lamentably infrequent, wholly unlike each other, and highly to be
treasured. If you remember—as I am sure you do—My Boy Friend’s Name is Jello (the best from f&sf: fourth series) or The Golem (fifth series), you know the one certain fact about any Davidson story: that it be unpredictable, unique and delightful.
KING’S EVIL
When I first saw the copy of The Memoirs of Dr. Mainauduc, the Mesmerist (bound in flaking leather, the spine in shreds, and half the title page missing: which is why I was able to buy it cheap), I assumed it to be a work of fiction. There is something extremely Gothick about “Mainauduc, the Mesmerist.” It sets one in mind at once of Melmoth, the Wanderer. No one today would venture to invent such a name for such a person. (Unless, of course, he were writing for television or the movies, in which case he might venture anything.) But the times bring forth the man, and the man bears the name. Consider, for example, “the Jesuit Hell.” This is not a theological conception, it was a man, a Jesuit, whose family name was Hell. Father Hell devised a system or theory of healing based on “metallic magnetism”; he passed it on to Franz Anton Mesmer, who almost at once quarreled with him, produced the countertheory of “animal magnetism.” Mesmer begat (so to speak) D’Eslon, D’Eslon begat Mainauduc. Full of enthusiasm, Mainauduc came to England, and settled in, of all places, Bristol. All this, I admit, sounds most improbable. Truth so often does. Who is not familiar with the bewildered cry of the novice writer, “But that’s the way it happened!’’? Not altogether trusting to my own ability to convince the reader that there really was such a person as the Jesuit Hell or such a person as Mainauduc, the Mesmerist, I refer him to Mackay’s Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds; but should he (the reader) not be able to credit that this work exists either, then I must throw up my hands. Mackay, in my opinion, was really too hard on “The Magnetisers,” as he called them. Himself so great a sceptic, he could have little cause for complaint if other, later, sceptics should not care to believe that any book bearing such a tide ever existed. In a way, it would serve him right. . . .
In Bristol Dr. Mainauduc flourished to the degree that his reputation went on ahead of him to London. In a short time London was coming to him; he cured dukes of the dropsy and generals of the gout, he magnetized countesses into convulsions and they emerged from them free of the phthysic, while vicountesses left their vapors behind them—or so he says. At any rate he determined upon going to London and setting up something called “the Hygienickal Society . . . for Females of high Position . . . the fees, Fifteen Guineas” at his house in the capital. And he describes, amongst many other cases, one where he cured a long-seated complaint (“pronounced beyond help”) entirely by proxy.
It may be that Dr. Mainauduc’s success in Bristol was perhaps not quite so dazzling as his memory in later years led him to fancy. He had come up to London, to discuss his setting up practice there, at the invitation of a Mr. Wentworth, “a Bachelor of Physick,” who lived in Rosemary Lane; and despite its pretty name, Rosemary Lane was not located in a pretty district. We might consider it a depressed area. And Mr. Wentworth had arranged to meet him, not in his own quarters, but at an inn called the Mulberry Tree, where they were to dine. Mr. Wentworth had made the necessary arrangements, but Mr. Wentworth was late.
“Dr. Mainauduc? To meet Mr. Wentworth? Certainly, sir,” the waiter said. “If the Doctor will only please to step in here, Mr. Wentworth will be along presently.” And he led him along to a medium-sized room, with paneled walls, and a fire which seemed to beckon pleasantly from the grate, for it was the first of October, and the air was chill. He had scarcely had the time to give his full attention to the flames licking greedily at the greasy black slabs of coal when he noticed that there was someone already in the room. This person came forward from his corner, where he had been engaged in softening the nether end of one candle in the flame of another so that it might hold fast in its sconce and not wobble, with his hand extended.
“Have I, sir,” he asked, with the slightest of smiles, and an air of deference and courtesy, “the honor of beholding the author of the great treatise on the magnetical fluid?”
“You are too kind, sir,” said Mainauduc, indicating to the waiter with but a flick of his eye that there was no objection taken to the stranger’s presence and that the waiter might leave. “I am sensible of the complaint you pay me merely by having heard of my little pamphlet.” And he bowed.
“Heard of it, Doctor?” cries the other, a smallish, slender man, clad in dark garments. He holds up his finger as if to command attention, and begins to speak.
“‘The magnet attracts iron, iron is found everywhere, everything is therefore under the influence of magnetism. It is only a modification of the general principle, which establishes harmony or foments discord. It is the same agent that gives rise to sympathy, antipathy, and the passions.’ Have I not the passage right, sir? My name is Blee, sir: James Blee.”
“I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Blee. I commend your memory. However—” he seated himself at right angles to the fire—”you will doubtless recall that the passage you quote is not mine. I was quoting from the Spaniard, Balthazar Graciano.” He spread his long fingers to the blaze. “Are you a physician, sir?”
Mr. Blee perhaps did not hear the question.
“Then try my memory on this, Doctor,” he said. “ “There is a flux and reflux, not only in the sea, but in the atmosphere, which affects in a similar manner all organized bodies through the medium of a subtile and mobile fluid, which pervades the universe, and associates all things together in mutual intercourse and harmony.’ Were you . . . dare we hope ... is it that . . . ?”
Dr. Mainauduc raised his dark brows.
“What is your question, Mr. Blee?”
“Can it be that London is destined to enjoy the great fortune which has hithertofore been Bristol’s alone, Dr. Mainauduc? The reluctant tones of my voice must discover to you that I know I have no right to enquire, but . . .”
The mesmerist smiled. “It may be,” he began; but at this moment the door was thrown open and two gentlemen entered, one nervously, the other laughing.
“Oh, pray, pray forgive me, Dr. Mainauduc—how d’ye do, Mr. Blee?—for my lateness,” said the nervous gentleman, taking off his hat so hurriedly his wig came with it. He struggled to replace it, and, at the same time, gestured towards his companion, who rubbed his hands as he looked about the room and laughed. “This is Mr. Farmer, sir; Mr. Farmer— Dr. Mainauduc, Mr. Blee.” He smiled faintly. His face was pale.
“Dr. Mainauduc, Mainauduc, very pleased. Mr. Blee, I hope you do well, well, well. Farmer by name, gentlemen,” the other man said, “and farmer by profession, fanner by profession. What, what?” He then laughed once more at length and proceeded to repeat his remarks all over again. His face was ruddy.
Mr. Blee courteously asked if he had had good crops, and while Mr. Farmer was merrily discussing corn, hay, and wall-fruit with his questioner, Mr. Wentworth drew Dr. Mainauduc to one side, and spoke closely to his ear.
“The fact of the matter is that I never saw this gentleman in my life before, till just above an hour ago, when he came into the barber’s where I was having my hair attended to, and desired to be shaved. ‘Tis my belief, sir, that he is some country squire unused to London ways,” Mr. Wentworth said; “for when the man was finished, the gentleman said, oh, as blandly as you please, that he had no money. I presume he’d had his pocket picked, for one can see by his clothes that he is—”
“Oh, quite so,” murmured Dr. Mainauduc.
“Have you not often wondered,” Mr. Fanner chattered to Mr. Blee, “how the people do? How they live? What their lives are like? What they think, really think? Hey, sir? What, what?”
“Oh, frequently, Mr. Farmer!”
Wentworth murmured, “And so I thought best to pay for the barber, and then I really did not know how to get rid of him.”
Dr. Mainauduc saw that his fellow physician was considerably embarrassed at the introduction of two extra men to what was intended for a private meeti
ng. He assured him that he did not mind, and said that, indeed, it was just as well, for they might get a lay opinion on the subject of introducing to London the practice of the Mesmeric therapy. And so they all four sat down to supper. There was beef and brawn and game pie and goose.
“I little thought to have this honor, Doctor,” Mr. Blee said; “but, chancing to hear from Mr. Wentworth, of whose professional parts I bear the highest opinion, that you were to be here, I felt I must hazard it, and come to see the prophet of the newfound philosophy.”
Wentworth, who had treated Blee for an amorous distemper, kept silence, but his principal guest smiled.
“Newly re-found philosophy, I should rather term it,” Mainauduc said. “What was the laying on of hands but animal magnetism, anciently practiced? And in what other way did Elisha bring to life the dead child, but by conveyance of the magnetical fluid?” Wentworth nodded gravely.
The Best from Fantasy and Science Fiction Sixth Series Page 7
