Ressurection Days

by Wilson Tucker

  It was a strange treasure trove—one that would have delighted an archaeologist. The foremost object was also the largest—a dirty gray skull with a bullet hole through the back of the cranium.

  “Bushwhacked!” Owen * exclaimed. “This poor fellow was bushwhacked.”

  Kehli’s troubled glance passed from the skull to Owen. “He was slain. Did the ancients slay one another for ceremonial purposes?”

  “They did it for every reason you can think of, and some you can’t. We called it civilization, Kelly.” Owen turned the skull about to examine the features, then looked at the woman’s expression. “You’re shocked. I guess you don’t have murder in this here paradise.”

  “Certainly not! I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Lucky you. Don’t invent it.”

  He put the skull aside and poked through the booty with his finger. There were a score or more gold teeth and gold fillings, several war medals, full dentures and partial dentures, a double handful of rings, women’s bracelets and necklaces, spectacles with wire frames and spectacles with steel frames, a nose ring, and a dirt-encrusted pocket watch.

  “Kelly, you could open a pawnshop.”

  “What—”

  “Skip it, and drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

  Owen returned his attention to the pocket watch. It was no dollar dummy but instead a fine and expensive timepiece lovingly crafted by some artisan. He soaked a corner of his napkin with whiskey and briskly rubbed the watch to clean away the grime. It appeared to be gold and appeared to be half familiar. A thumbnail found the catch and the lid was lifted away from the glass-covered face. The hinge was stiff from disuse. Time had stopped at eight minutes past three. A short broken length of gold chain hung from the tiny handle crowning and protecting the stem. There was no watch fob among the booty. It was a fine watch and a costly one, designed either for a robber baron or a gentleman.

  Owen rubbed the inside of the lid, the better to read an inscription there.

  “Is it a religious object?” Kehli asked. “Did the ancients pray by it?”

  “Nope, it’s a timepiece, and they swore by it. Mind you, sometimes they swore at it. You should have heard the ruckus when President Roosevelt changed the whole country over to daylight saving time to help the war effort. Hoo boy, did some people bitch and moan! There was a joker down there in some, backwater Tennessee town who took a hammer to his watch—he really did. He stood out in the middle of the street at high noon and smashed it to smithereens. He claimed that nobody had the right to tinker with God’s time, and if the President was going to change things around, he refused to be a part of it. He refused to carry Roosevelt time. So he smashed his watch with a hammer and got his picture in the papers.”

  “It seems to be an odd behavior.”

  “Tennessee people are full of odd behavior. They ain’t like me and you, cupcake.”

  Cupcake sipped the coffee and watched Owen with contentment.

  “I’ve come across a few of these pieces in my time— two or three of them, I guess. My grandfather carried one almost all of his life until one day he dropped it in the cistern. A cistern is a hole in the ground that holds rainwater,” he explained before she could ask. “Rainwater is soft and is best for baths and doing the washing and things like that. Grandfather had a pump in his kitchen and used it for drinking too. He was pretty upset about losing that watch in the cistern.

  “And there was another guy, a professor over at Ball State, who carried one. He was a funny little duck. I had a job remodeling, his front porch and that old professor would stand around outside watching me work and looking at his watch. I was being paid by the hour, see, and he was timing me to find out if I was cheating him. Professors are like that—a little windblown in the attic.”

  Owen put down the napkin and turned the watch to the candlelight to read the inscription. It was necessary to squint to make out the fine lettering.

  “Jehoshaphat, Kelly!”

  The woman jumped at the sharp cry. “What is it?”

  “You dug up Pastor Coulson!” He goggled at the woman.

  “I do not know this … it.”

  “He, him, not it! I know him—he’s from my hometown. ‘Pastor Coulson’s running around somewhere out there!”

  “But that cannot be,” she said reassuringly. “The males are not permitted outside after dark.”

  “Then he’s in somebody’s back room sleeping around!”

  It boggled the mind. Pastor Coulson, the pillar of Hartford City, alive and well and sleeping in some dolly’s back bedroom. Well—sort of alive, and ambulatory. The good pastor had been resurrected first and set to work somewhere; he had arrived in town before Owen and learned firsthand that his preachings were something less than accurate. It must have been a stunning blow. The man hadn’t been seen during the day’s wanderings, but that wasn’t to be remarked. Owen had seen or had contact with only a fraction of the hundreds of workmen riding the road or toiling in the factories. Here, somewhere, was a man from the future, a man who had outlived Owen and gone on to nobody knew how many years into the future. Pastor Coulson might even know who had won the war in Europe.

  “Kelly, you do the damndest things! You dig. me up and dump me on the stoop next door, and now you’ve gone and dug up Pastor Coulson.” He finished the last of his coffee and let the remaining whiskey roll down his throat. “This is a fine kettle of fish.”

  “What is a fish?”

  Kehli had turned her chair about to watch Owen wash the dishes. The meal had been an impressive one, revealing his unsuspected skills in a day already full of surprises, and she was not slow in realizing that the man was more than a transitory variant. The fact that he was doing housekeeping chores without being ordered to do so was not lost on her. The city had never known a male quite like him before—at least, not in her thirty years of life.

  His coming reformation would be a loss.

  Owen had been obliged to go to the machine and whip up a dishpan and a box of Ivory Flakes because there were none in the house. He wrapped one bath towel about his middle to serve as an apron and used another as a dish towel. When the chore was finished and the dishes stacked away, he scooped up the booty and re-, turned it to its box and then washed off the table.

  “Mind if I keep the pocket watch? I don’t guess Pastor Coulson can tell time anymore.”

  “You may have it, Owen Hall.”

  “Thanks. If I run across him and he wants it, I’ll give it back, of course. Honest as the day is long, I am.” He poked a finger through the treasure. “There ain’t no money here—dimes and quarters and shills and stuff. I saw some at Paoli’s house.”

  “I give the coins to her. She wishes to collect them.”

  “Most women would want the jewelry—there’s a fat bundle wrapped up in these stones.” Owen picked up a string and dangled it before her eyes. “These look like real pearls to me—maybe several hundred dollars worth here. Some women would do some high diddling for these. Don’t ask what that means. You lead a sheltered life.”

  “We do not wear jewelry. The artifacts were thought to be religious objects worshipped by the ancients.”

  Owen eyed the woman. “Out of the mouths of babes.” He dropped the pearls into the box and gave the remaining loot another scrutiny. Some of the objects in the box were mildly surprising. Of what use were spectacles to a corpse? The undertaker might as well include a radio in the coffin.

  “Whatever happened to the wristwatches? There’s just got to be some wristwatches turning up now and then. I had one once, but somebody lifted it.”

  “What is a wristwatch?”

  Owen said, “Fudge,” and explained a watch, using his pocket timepiece for points of reference and comparison. He wrapped his fingers about his left wrist to show Kehli how and where he’d worn his.

  “We do find those objects, Owen Hall. Like the coins, they are collected. Wytha has many of them.”

  “Is she one-of your neighbo
rs too?”

  “Wytha lives a distance away, beyond the zone. She sits on the council of administrators.”

  “I knew it!” Owen declared with fervor. “I just knew it. Leave it to a politician to peel the boodle off a body.” He smacked a hand onto the table. “I’ve got a notion to march right down there and get my watch back!”

  Kehli looked over the table with quick alarm and reached out to stay his hand. “That would be very unwise, Owen Hall. An imprudent action would be cause for grave concern. Wytha has a fitful temper.”

  “Meaning she would throw me in the slammer?”

  “I don’t know what she would do, but it would be unpleasant for you.” She enfolded his hand in hers. “And please do not make noise. People may be sleeping around us.”

  “I ought to pound on the wall and keep old what’s-her-name awake all night.” He jerked the thumb of his free hand at the separating wall behind him. “I owe her one.

  “Please do not do that. Her name is Hoon.”

  “It’s just a—oh, yes,* Hoon. Good old Hoon, the woman with a thousand friends. What does she do, Kelly?”

  “Do?”

  “What’s her job in this here town? I can’t figure her messing around with bootleg booze.”

  “Hoon is the keeper of the records. An archivist.” “Archivist, anarchist—I don’t care a moldy fig about her politics. Does she keep all kinds of records? Births, deaths, the guys you dig up—that kind of thing?”

  Kehli nodded. “She maintains a record of all that occurs in the city—the vital statistics, the number of recoveries as well as the losses, the amount of foodstuffs produced and consumed, the rebuilding and repairs, the laws and regulations handed down by the council of administrators—oh, whatever is necessary to maintain a continuous record. We pride ourselves on our history and she is the city historian. The ancients did that.”

  “We’ve got town clerk and county clerks who do the same thing.” Owen considered the matter. “What about a library, or the Queen Bee’s history reaching back a long spell? Paoli told me something this afternoon. She said that she searched the files and found out about boozing in the old days. What files?”

  “Hoon is the keeper of the files. There are many written records that you would call a library. They include our limited knowledge of the ancients, but there is much dispute as to whether the writings are truth or fantasy. Some are regarded as being only Mother’s stories.”

  “King Tut is real but Buck Rogers is fantasy. There ain’t nobody been walking on clouds lately.” He squeezed her hand and grinned. “Guess what Hoon did?” “I cannot guess.”

  “She found out that the workshop machines will do more than make zombies for the factories—just as you did an hour ago. She found out they would also make booze, and—by damn!—she did. Between you and me and the gatepost, Kelly, it was mighty poor stuff—it was , dime-a-shot bar whiskey, pure rotgut, but she made some on her own machine and got tanked. Plastered. And while she was plastered she made a variant for herself. Me.” Owen Hall paused and thought about that for a length of time. At last he said, “Ugh.”

  Kehli was cautious. “That may be true.”

  “She was drunk, I am here. I’m a variant.”

  “It appears to be true.”

  “How did she get a corpse? If she’s the town clerk and keeper of the files, why is she cranking out retreads for slave labor? Doesn’t she have enough work to keep busy? Why did you deliver me to her door yesterday?”

  “It was so directed.”

  “Come again?”

  “Her name and number was on the delivery list given to me. Each day I am given a quota to recover and a list of addresses where they are to be delivered. I do not question my directives, Owen Hall.”

  “Where do you get the lists?”

  “The council decides on the number of recoveries, but my directives are issued by Hoon or the woman who is assisting her.”

  “Did you get yesterday’s list from Hoon?”

  “Yes.” Kehli seemed suddenly uncomfortable.

  Owen fell silent and rested his case. It was pleasant to be holding hands across the table with the woman, and he was more than willing to ignore the fact that she was two years the elder. What were a few years between good friends?

  Watching her face by candlelight was an entrancing pastime, and the flames appeared to increase the depths of those marvelous brown eyes. He had fallen in love with her eyes first. She was a heady delight to look at, to be with, and he was ever so pleased that he’d found her in the timber. It was hurtful to realize that he would have to leave her behind; of all the people in the town, he would miss only her, and that absence would be keenly felt. Perhaps he could sneak back to the timber now and then and watch her at work, watch her napping or lunching on a pink blanket under the trees. Perhaps he could come back for periodic visits while he explored the prairies and sought out other towns, while he searched for Indiana.

  He said to the heady delight, “I’d take you out for a night on the town, if there was any nightlife around here. What do you do for fun?”

  “I sometimes sing.”

  “Sing—for fun? You mean sing like Bing Crosby and A1 Jolson or sing like in the Tabernacle Choir? I heard the Tabernacle Choir on the radio once.”

  “I am not familiar with those… names.”

  “They’re all ancient people, but some are more ancient than others. Who do you sing with?

  “I sing alone, to please myself.”

  “I’d rather shoot pool,” he replied.

  “What is pool? Is it a body of water?”

  “It’s a game you play with balls on a table. Cupcake, there’s an awful lot of things you don’t know, even if you are a neato citizen of the future. You and Paoli are always asking what is this, what is that, and what is the other thing, and a guy would think that the schools are pretty poor around this -town.” Owen interlaced his fingers with hers and gently squeezed. “You failed to pick up on one little thing. You didn’t ask me what love is.” Kehli looked at him for a length of time and then slowly smiled. “There was no need to ask.”

  “Ah,” Owen murmured, and again: “Ah… .” He measured the warmth of her smile. “Are you in the mood to do anything about it? I’m a jitterbug expert.”

  “There is nothing I could do if I wished. It is forbidden.”

  “Has the council passed laws against that too?” He was thunderstruck. “Kelly, that’s a crock!”

  She made a little moue with her lips, cautioning him to keep his voice down. “The rule is as old as the city itself. A woman may not form an emotional attachment for a recovery. It is considered degrading and could lead to future problems. It is forbidden, Owen Hall.”

  “That’s un-American. So what about the variants?” “Variants are permissible because they perform a physical function only, and their duration is limited.”

  “How limited?” he asked with suspicion.

  “They are usually kept one or two days.”

  “How do you like that!” Owen cried. “Dig ’em, diddle ’em, and dump ’em. It’s enough to make a man take to drink!” He pulled his hands free and emptied the remainder of the bourbon into his coffee cup. If Kehli had not been seated across the table and had not asked him to keep the peace, he would have hurled the empty bottle at the wall of Hoon’s bedroom. “What happens to the poor old variants after they’re all used up?”

  “They are remolded for the labor force.”

  “Heads or tails, I lose.” Owen was indignant; it just wasn’t right to treat an Indiana gentleman in such a fashion. He fixed the woman with a steely gaze. “Do you feel degraded, Kelly?”

  “I am not degraded by your company, Owen Hall. I seldom understand you and I think your ancient peoples were a mad lot, but you have provided an excellent meal, you have taught me much, and you are an entertaining visitor. I have liked you since we met this morning, and I feel strangely exhilarated while in your presence. No, I am not degraded.”

 
“Well, bully for the good guys. Go ahead and sing if you feel like it, cupcake. It probably won’t mean anything to you, but I don’t expect you to pay for your supper, no way, no how. If you want to sing, I’ll hum along. Do you know “After the Ball Is Over?”

  An imperious rapping sounded at the door.

  “Geez,” Owen muttered, “it’s over already.”

  He sidled out of his chair as Kehli jumped, startled at the sound. Her expression was a mixture of alarm and dismay. She stared at him for a long, agonizing moment, as if she were mentally bidding him farewell, and went to the door.

  Owen blew out the candles and sped away with thi speed and dispatch of a timorous swain bolting through the back door even as an angry father came in the front He left behind as evidence a measure of bourbon, a half smoked cigar, and his two rucksacks.

  Twelve

  Though a man escape every other danger, he can never

  wholly escape those who do not want such a person as he is

  to exist.

  —Demosthenes

  Owen didn’t stop running until he tripped and fell over a cross-pipe hidden in the weeds’ He sprawled on the ground for a long moment, breathing through his mouth to regain his spent breath, and then cautiously raised his head to look back.

  The fireflies had resumed their pointless dance.

  He had put nearly a quarter-mile between him and the torchbearing manhunters. It wasn’t much and it surely wasn’t a safe distance, but a quarter-mile was pretty good for a man fresh out of retirement. His legs and his lungs had gotten a mite rusty from disuse during the last several hundred years and weren’t quite ready for emergencies. Owen thought he had a few minutes grace to catch his breath. The manhunters were wasting time by running along the backs of the row houses checking doors, believing he had entered yet another one, but they would get the smarts in short order and realize where he really was.

  By now there were thirty or forty women in the posse, if the number of torches provided an accurate count; there could be double that number if others had come along empty-handed. He certainly was a popular fugitive.