Castle of Days (1992) SSC

by Gene Wolfe

  Then I changed my tactics. I remembered perfectly well that when we were in the fourth grade a class picture had been taken. I could even recall the day, how hot it was, and how the photographer had ducked in and out of his cloth, looking like a bent-over nun when he was aiming the camera. I asked Sister Leona if I could look at that. She hesitated a minute and then agreed and had the young sister bring a big album that she told me had all the class pictures since the school was founded. I asked for the fourth grade of nineteen forty-four and after some shuffling she found it.

  We were ranged in alternate columns of boys and girls, just as I had remembered. Each boy had a girl on either side of him but another boy in front and in back. Peter, I was certain, had stood directly behind me one step higher on the school steps, and though I couldn’t think of their names I recalled the faces of the girls to my right and left perfectly.

  The picture was a little dim and faded now, and having seen the school building on my way to the convent I was surprised at how much newer it had looked then. I found the spot where I had stood, second row from the back and about three spaces over from our teacher Sister Therese, but my face wasn’t there. Between the two girls, tiny in the photograph, was the sharp, dark face of Peter Palmieri. No one stood behind him, and the boy in front was Ernie Cotha. I ran my eyes over the list of names at the bottom of the picture and his name was there, but mine was not.

  I don’t know what I said to Sister Leona or how I got out of the convent. I only remember walking very fast through the almost empty Sunday-morning streets until the sign in front of the newspaper office caught my eye. The sun was reflected from the gilded lettering and the plate glass window in a blinding glare, but I could see dimly the figures of two men moving about inside. I kicked the door until one of them opened it and let me into the ink-scented room. I didn’t recognize either of them, yet the expectancy of the silent, oiled presses in back was as familiar as anything in Cassonsville, unchanged since I had come in with my father to buy the ad to sell our place.

  I was too tired to fence with them. Something had been taken out of me in the convent and I could feel my empty belly with a little sour coffee in it. I said, “Listen to me please, sir. There was a boy named Pete Palmer; he was born in this town. He stayed behind when the prisoners were exchanged at Panmunjom and went to Red China and worked in a textile mill there. They sent him to prison when he came back. He’d changed his name after he left here, but that wouldn’t make any difference; there’ll be a lot about him because he was a local boy. Can I look in your files under August and September of 1959? Please?”

  They looked at each other and then at me. One was an old man with badly fitting false teeth and a green eyeshade like a movie newspaperman; the other was fat and tough looking with dull, stupid eyes. Finally the old man said, “There wasn’t no Cassonsville boy stayed with the Communists. I’da remembered a thing like that.”

  I said, “Can I look, please?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s fifty cents an hour to use them files, and you can’t tear out nothing or take nothing out with you, understand?”

  I gave him two quarters and he led me back to the morgue. There was nothing, nothing at all. There was nothing for 1953 when the exchange had taken place either. I tried to look up my birth announcement then, but there were no files before 1945; the old man out front said they’d been “burnt up when the old shop burned.”

  I went outside then and stood in the sun awhile. Then I went back to the motel and got my bag and went out to the island. There were no kids this time; it was very lonely and very peaceful. I poked around a bit and found this cave on the south side, then lay down on the grass and smoked my last two cigarettes and listened to the river and looked up at the sky. Before I knew it, it had started to get dark and I knew I’d better begin the trip home. When it was too dark to see the bank across the river I went into this cave to sleep.

  I think I had really known from the first that I was never going to leave the island again. The next morning I untied the skiff and let it drift away on the current, though I knew the boys would find it hung up on some snag and bring it back.

  How do I live? People bring me things, and I do a good deal of fishing—even through the ice in winter. Then there are blackberries and walnuts here on the island. I think a lot, and if you do that right it’s better than the things people who come to see me sometimes tell me they couldn’t do without.

  You’d be surprised at how many do come to talk to me. One or two almost every week. They bring me fishhooks and sometimes a blanket or a sack of potatoes and some of them tell me they wish to God they were me.

  The boys still come, of course. I wasn’t counting them when I said one or two people. Papa was wrong. Peter still has the same last name as always and I guess now he always will, but the boys don’t call him by it much.

  HALLOWEEN

  Many Mansions

  Old Woman: So you are the new woman from the Motherworld. Well, come in and sit down. I saw you coming up the road on your machine.

  Oh yes, Todd and I, we’ve always been friendly with you people, though there are some here still that remember the War. This was a rich district, you know, before; for a few, that’s hard to forget.

  Well, it’s all behind us now, and it wasn’t us anyway. Just my father and Todd’s—and your grandmother, I suppose. Even if you were carried in a bottle, you must have had a grandmother, and she would have fought against us. Still, it’s good of you now to send people to help us rebuild here, though as you can see it hasn’t done much good.

  I didn’t mean this place was here before the War—not much that you’ll see was. Todd built this thirty years ago; he was younger then—couldn’t do it now. You know, you are such a pretty thing—can’t I get you a cup? Well, we call it tea, but your people don’t. The woman who was here before you, she always said how much better the real tea was, but she never gave us any.

  I tasted it once, but I didn’t like it. I was brought up on our own brewing, you see. I’ll pour you a glass of our wine if you won’t take tea; this cake has got a trifle dry.

  Oh, I can imagine well enough what it’s been like. Going around from one to another saying, “Have you seen her? Do you know what happened to her?” and getting hostile looks and not much else. It’s because of the War, you know. That’s what my mother always said. People here weren’t like that before the War. Now—well, they know that you’re supposed to help them, to make up for it; and you’re not doing it now, are you? Just going about looking for your friend.

  I doubt you’ll ever see her again. She’s been taken. I don’t suppose you know about that—the old houses? She didn’t either when she came; we had to tell her about it. I would have thought they’d teach you—put it in a little book to give out or something. Did you get one of those? Never mind—I’ve seen them. Saw hers, for all of that. She was such a pretty thing, just like you.

  I don’t mind telling you—it’s the old houses, the ones built before the War. Todd’s family had one down at Breaker, and my own family, we had one here. I hear yours are different—all shiny metal and shaped like eggs, or else like nails stood on end. Ours weren’t like that; not in the old days, and no more now. More like this one you’re sitting in: wood, or what looked like it. But for all that you beat us, our fathers and grandfathers—and our mothers and grandmothers too, for our women weren’t what you think, you don’t really know about it—they had more power over machines than you do. They didn’t use them to make more machines, though; just put them in their houses to help out. They were friendly to their homes, you see, and thought their homes should be friendly to them.

  Some say the brains of people were used to make the houses think. Taken out of the heads and put in jars in secret rooms, with wires running all over to work little fusion motors. Others say that the heads are still there, and the bodies too, to take care of the brains; but the houses don’t know it anymore, or don’t care. They say that if you were to go ins
ide, and open the door of the right room, you’d see someone still lying on a bed that was turning to dust, while the eyes watched you from every picture.

  Yes, they’re still here—some of them. Your girls burned most—I’ve never understood why. Beautiful things they were, so my mother used to tell me. Ours was white, and four stories high. They kept themselves up, you understand, the same as a woman. If there were people’s brains in them (and I’ve never been sure that was true) then they must have been women’s brains mostly. They kept themselves up. There were roses climbing up them, the same as a woman will wear a flower in her hair; and ours pinned wisteria to her like a corsage. The roofs were tight and good all the time, and if a window broke it mended itself with nobody troubling. It’s not like that now, from what I hear.

  I’ve never seen one myself, not to speak of. Todd has, or says he has. He’ll tell you about it, if you like, when he comes in. But I’m not thinking, am I? Here you’ve sat all this time with your glass empty.

  It’s no trouble—it’s our courtesy, you see, to host strangers. I know you don’t do it, but this is my house. Now, don’t you get angry; I’m a headstrong old lady, and I’m used to having my own way.

  Don’t you use that word anymore? It just means woman now. Drink this and I’ll cut you some more cake.

  None at all? I won’t force it on you. Yes, people see them—they’re still here, some of them, and so why not? Take our land; it ran back as far as you could go if you walked all day—clear to the river. The south property line was at the edge of town, and the north way up in the mountains. That was in the old days. Most of it was plowed and cultivated then, and what woodlands there was were cleared out. Then the War came. Half the autochthons were killed, like most of us; those that were left were happy enough to run off into the fens, or lie around the towns waiting for somebody to rob. We would have civilized them if you’d given us another century.

  But you wanted to know about the houses. Pull the curtain there to one side, will you? It’s starting to get dark, and I always worry when Todd’s not home. No, dear, I’m not hinting for you to go—that machine of yours has a light on the front, don’t it? And a girl—woman—like you, that’s not afraid of anything, wouldn’t be afraid of riding home in the dark, I would think. Besides, I’d feel better if you’d stay; you’re a comfort to me.

  Well, the War came, and most of the houses were told to hide themselves. Your people bombed them while we were still fighting, you know, and burned them after we gave up. So they hid, as well as they could.

  Oh, yes, they can move around. It must have been so nice for the people before the War—they could have their homes down by the river in summer, and wherever the firewood was in winter—no, they didn’t need it for heat, I said they had fusion motors, didn’t I? Still, they liked wood fires.

  So the houses hid, as I said. Hid for years while your girl soldiers went over the country and your ornithopters flapped around all day. In the deepest parts of the woods, most of them, and down in the crevasses where the sunlight never comes. They grew mosses on their roofs then, and that must have saved quite a few. Some went into the tarns, they say, and stood for years on the bottoms—Saint Syncletica’s church is under Lake Kell yet, and the people hear the bells ringing when they’re out on the water in storms.

  If you’re fond of fishing, it’s a good lake, but there’s no roads to it—you’d have to walk. Your patrols used the roads mostly, so we let a lot of them grow up in trees again. The houses make false ones though, slipping through the thickets. That’s what the men say. Todd will be hunting in deep timber, where there shouldn’t be any road and there’s no place to go if there were, and come on one twice or three times the size of this room and the porch together, just going nowhere, winding down through the brakes. Some say you can follow those roads forever and never come to anything; but my Todd says that one time he walked one till it was near dark, and then he saw a house at the end of it, a tall, proud house, with a light in the gable window. My own home, that was, is what I think. My father used to tell how when he’d go out riding and not come back till midnight or later, there’d be a light burning for him in the highest window. It’s still waiting for him, I suppose.

  Does anyone live in them? Well, some say one thing, some another. I told you I’ve never seen one myself, so how would I know? You’ll meet people who say they’ve seen faces staring out through the windows—who knows if they’re telling the truth? Maybe it was just shadows they saw on the walls in there. Maybe it wasn’t.

  Oh, a lot of people go looking for them. There’s money inside, of course. Wealth, I should say, because the money’s worth nothing now. Still, the people who had those big houses had jewels, and platinum flatware—there was a fad for that then, so I’ve heard; and who could be trusted better to take care of it than their own homes? The ones that say they go hunting for people tell stories about little boys finding a spoon gleaming in the ferns, and seeing something else, a creamer or something, farther on. Following the trail, you know, picking up the things, until the house nearly has them. Then (this is the way the story always goes) they get frightened and drop everything and run away. I don’t believe a word of it. I’ve told Todd, if he should ever find any platinumware in the woods, or gold, or those cat’s-eye carbuncles they talk about, to turn around right then and bring it home. But he’s never brought back anything like that.

  Don’t go yet—you’re company for me. I don’t get much, out here away from everybody. I’ll tell you about Lily—have you heard of her? It might have some bearing on the woman who was here before you.

  I don’t know how you feel about morality—with your people it’s so hard to tell. Todd says we ought to forgive women like her, but then men always do. She was pretty enough—beautiful, you might say—and it’s hard for a woman alone to make a living. Maybe I ought not to blame her too much; she gave good value, I suppose, for what she received. A pretty face, men like that, not round like yours, but a long oval shape. Waist no bigger than this, and one of those full chests—at least, after she had begun doing what she did regular, and was getting enough to eat and all the drink she wanted. Skin like cream—I always had to hold back my hand to keep from running my fingers over it.

  As well as you know me by now, you know I wouldn’t have her in my house. But it was an act of charity, I thought, to talk to her sometimes. She must have been lonely for woman-company. I used to go into town every so often then, and if I met her and there wasn’t anybody else about, I’d pass the time. That was a mistake, because when I’d done it once or twice she came out to visit me. See the two chairs out there? Through the window? Well, I kept her sitting there on the porch for over an hour, and never did ask her in or give her a bite to eat. When she went home she knew, believe me. She knew what I thought, and how far she could go. Coming to ask if she could help with the canning, like a neighbor!

  Here’s what she told me, though. I don’t imagine you know where the Settles’ farm is? Anyway, up past it is where Dode Beckette lives—just a little shack set back in the trees. She was going up there one spring evening. He had sent for her, I suppose, or maybe she was just looking for trade; when a man has a woman alone knock at his door … a woman like that—I don’t intend you, dear—why, nature is liable to take its course, isn’t it? She was carrying a load, if you know what I mean; she told me so herself. The air was chill, possibly, and it’s likely someone had left a bottle with her the night before. Still, I don’t think she was seeing things. She was accustomed to it, and that makes all the difference. Just enough to make her hum to herself, I would say. I used to hear her singing on the various roads round and about in just that way; it’s always those that have the least to make music about that sing, I always say.

  First thing you know she went around a bend, and there was the house. It wasn’t the Settles’, or Dode’s shack—a big place. Like a palace, she said, but I would think that was stretching it a bit. More like the hotel, I should think. Not kept up,
the paint peeling here and there, and the railing of the veranda broke; some of them have got a little careless, I think, hiding so long. Hunted things grow strange sometimes, though I don’t suppose you’ve noticed.

  There was a light, she said. Not high like the one Todd saw, but on the first floor where the big front room would be. Yellow at first, she told me, but it got a rosy cast when she came closer; she thought someone had put a red shawl over it. There was music too. Happy dancing music, the kind men like. She knew what sort of house it was then, and so did I. She told me she wanted to walk up on that porch right then and never come out; but when she had the chance she was afraid.

  She’s gone now, all right, but not because she found her house again. She’s dead.

  I’m sorry, though there’s others I would miss more. They found her in a ditch over on the other side of Pierced Rock. Some man didn’t want to pay, very likely; her neck was broken.

  Here comes Todd now. Hark to his step?

  Old Man: Got company, do we? I think I know who you are—the new young woman sent out from town. What is it they call it, the Reconstruction Office? Well, I hope Nor has entertained you. We ain’t much for society out here, but we try to treat our company right, and don’t think we’re high enough to look down on a visitor just because there wasn’t no father in her making. Nor fetched you a piece of cake, I see, and I’ll pour something for us all a trifle stouter than that wine you’ve been drinking. Keep the stabbers off.