by Gene Wolfe
“Well, I knew it couldn’t be Wrangler or Lisa, because I could see they were both worried sick. And I knew it wasn’t me. So it had to be Sancha or Lucie. This evening—I guess it was today—Lucie was supposed to be missing; but when I went out to see about Lady, I saw her down by the creek, talking to somebody I’d never seen before. When they split up, I followed him.”
“We’re not going to be able to go very much farther,” Judy pointed out. “This tower grows into the big wall up there.”
The call came again, only slightly louder than before.
“They’re on the other side of the wall,” Judy said.
Iron shoes rang on the cobbles. Both turned to look.
30
WILL
“NATURALLY YOU’RE wondering why we’re here,” von Madadh began. “Why I’ve called this meeting and brought Mrs. Howard with me.”
They were sitting before a blazing fire in the big, field-stone lodge at Meadow Grass: Will and Ann, Wrangler and Lisa, Bob Roberts and his daughter, and von Madadh himself. Lucie’s funeral had been conducted that afternoon by the priest from St. Stephen’s; the fine weather of the weekend had vanished with the shutting of Lucie’s coffin. A cold and weary wind moaned among the poplars and pines, tangling them as a sick child tangles its blankets, shaken with chill after chill, a lonely and abandoned child whimpering for the return of summer.
Ann glanced at Lisa. “I think I can guess.”
Von Madadh nodded. “Then go ahead.”
“It’s about the missing kids. They’re all kids now, though that may be just coincidence. Willie and me for Mercedes, Lisa and Wrangler for Sissy Stevenson, Mrs. Howard for Seth Howard, and Bob for his little granddaughter. Willie told me what you told him and Mercedes. You think you know who has them.”
Von Madadh nodded again. “I do, and stealing children is an ancient tactic of theirs. I propose that we rescue these children, or at least that we try. I’ve spoken at length with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Roberts already, and I know they’re anxious to make the attempt. What about the rest of you? Will? Mrs. Schindler?”
“I’ll do whatever I have to, to get Mercedes back. So will Willie.”
Shields nodded, his eyes guarded.
“Very good. Wrangler? Ms. Solomon?”
Wrangler said, “We don’t have a whole heap of money. Mr. Shields—”
Von Madadh raised a hand. “I don’t believe any great sum will be required—perhaps none. But will you risk your person, Wrangler? Will you risk your life?”
“Mine, sure. Not Miss Lisa’s.”
Lisa set her cup on the coffee table with an audible click. “You go to hell. Sissy’s your responsibility and not mine? You go straight to hell!”
Von Madadh motioned her to silence. “Then you’re with us; that’s well. I want you all, because I don’t know exactly what will be involved. Not outright fighting, I trust. We may have to negotiate, and certainly we will need all the cunning we can muster, and all the courage. Those who have talents of any sort must be prepared to use them, because we cannot anticipate which will be useful.”
Shields said, “Negotiation’s all very well, and I usually enjoy it. So is cunning—but how are we going to get in contact with them?”
“We’re going to knock on their door, I hope,” von Madadh told him. “Have I made it clear that I mean tonight? I do.”
To the group Roberts said, “He knows where they are.”
“I hope so, Bob. On Friday, Mercedes Schindler-Shields was interviewed by Sheriff Ahern. I interrupted them, although only briefly, looking for Seth. Shortly afterward, when I spoke with Mercedes and Mr. Shields, I learned that mine had not been the only interruption. A young woman had taken pictures of Mercedes and the sheriff for the Castle View.”
Von Madadh paused, extracting a cigar from his gold case as he looked around the circle. “Mercedes stated emphatically that this woman was none other than Viviane Morgan, who had been in the car with her at the time of the accident. Mr. Shields will confirm that I was somewhat skeptical.”
Shields nodded.
“I had good reason to be. Every human being possesses the ability to change his appearance to a surprising degree, as you must know. Not infrequently, women dye their hair; and there’s nothing to prevent a man from doing so if he chooses. Men grow beards and mustaches.” Von Madadh smiled as he stroked his own. “The proof is before you. And these elementary things I’ve just mentioned are only the beginning. There are wigs and toupees; many entertainers wear one or the other whenever they appear in public. Furthermore anyone who’s seen that classic of the stage Peter Pan has seen a boy personated by a woman; it’s how Peter is virtually always portrayed, and invariably a sizable part of the audience leaves the theater under the impression that it has in fact been entertained by a boy in his early teens.”
Lisa said, “Go on.”
“Those who have kidnapped Sissy and the rest are adept at such disguises, if human testimony is to be believed. In our files at the Daoine Institute we have hundreds of depositions describing instances in which a supposed husband or wife, uncle, daughter, sister, or brother was revealed as an impostor only by some uncharacteristic word or deed. A man returns early from a fair, giving some reason or perhaps refusing any. His wife and children suspect nothing until he eats with monstrous appetite, or is addressed by the cat. When the actual husband and father returns, the impostor is nowhere to be found.” Von Madadh bit the tip from his cigar and spat it into the fire, which crackled for an instant with blue flames.
Shields said, “Fairy stories.”
“Yes, sir, although nineteen of twenty lack all the wonder we associate with Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm. Here are no princesses—the persons involved are nearly always poor peasants. Here are no wishing rings or glass mountains, and no enchanted palaces. There has been an imposture—seemingly quite purposeless. It is over with now, and no evidence remains save for the sworn statements of the witnesses. Cynics are at pains to point out that each phenomenon is restricted to one cultural group—that Irish fairies are reported only from Ireland, for example. Peris and drujes appear soley in Iran; the tasë are to be met with in Burma alone, and in all cases there seems to be some confusing connection between these things and the spirits of the dead. If somebody has the temerity to point out that the peoples instanced speak radically different languages, that is dismissed as irrelevant.”
Ann asked, “What about this photographer Mercedes saw? Are you saying she was one of them?”
Von Madadh lit his cigar. “No. Mercedes said she was. I am saying that she was not. I found her and talked to her—and performed a certain simple test. She has lived here four years and is employed by the newspaper.”
Shields asked, “Then what are you getting at, Rex?”
“I outlined to her some of the things Mercedes told you and me, and she vehemently denied ever having ridden in such a car. Moreover, she insisted that the route Mercedes claimed that car had followed was impossible. Her duties have required her to photograph several accidents in which cars left that road. You will recall that Mercedes said the sheriff was also skeptical.”
Roberts said, “I used to hunt up there before the road was thought of. The doctor’s told us about this turnoff that your daughter says they took, and if it’s there I want to see it.”
“So do I,” Shields muttered.
Von Madadh puffed pungent smoke into the fireplace. “Good. Because that’s where I propose we go tonight. There are seven of us—too many for a single car. Let’s say that Mrs. Howard, her father, and I go in Mrs. Howard’s Oldsmobile. That leaves Will and Mrs. Schindler in Ms. Solomon’s car, with Ms. Solomon and Wrangler. Would that be satisfactory?”
Wrangler grunted. “You sure haven’t told us a whole lot about what you’re plannin’ to do.”
Von Madadh grinned at him. “If I cannot locate that road, nothing.”
“It’s Boomer!”
Boomer nodded emphatically, nickered, and
trotted over the cobblestones to nuzzle Sissy.
Judy interpreted. “He says he’s really glad to see you,” and Boomer nodded again.
“Yeah, I heard. I wish I had some sugar for you, good boy. I’m glad to see you, too.”
“Maybe we could ride on him back home,” Judy suggested. She remembered how Aunt Sally’s house had floated away. “Or anyway maybe if we rode around we could find a boat.”
“He’s been ridden hard already. Here, feel him—he isn’t going to hurt you. That’s sweat, and feel how hot he is. He ought to be walked, and that saddle should come off.” Sissy unbuckled Boomer’s cinch as she spoke. “We’ll walk him cool, then see if we can find him a drink. After that we might ride him a little, maybe.”
A new voice said, “Nice horse. Steeplechaser?”
Boomer reared, throwing saddle and blanket to the ground, his eyes rolling.
“Easy, easy!” Sissy grabbed for his bridle and got it. “It’s just a man. He won’t hurt you.”
The man was lean and over six feet tall; he wore a sweat-stained slouch hat and an even older brown-leather windbreaker. There was something about him that frightened Judy worse than Boomer’s rearing. “I’ll keep away from him,” the man said, and took a step backward. He cleared his throat—a hoarse rattling. “Name’s Jim Long. Long Jim, they call me.”
“Sissy Stevenson,” Sissy said, “and this is Judy. I don’t know her last name.” She paused, glancing toward Judy; but Judy only stared down at the damp cobbles and said nothing. “We’re lost,” Sissy concluded. “Do you know where Meadow Grass is from here? Or Castleview?”
Long Jim nodded absently, still looking at Boomer.
“Where are they? We ought to take Boomer back, and we want to go home ourselves.”
“Dangerous out there. You oughta have a man with you.”
“Then will you show us? Or anyway just tell us, and we’ll risk it.”
Long Jim advanced slowly toward Boomer, his hands extended. The big horse waited, trembling, staring at him with frightened eyes. “I might take you. I wouldn’t let you go off alone. You got a gun?”
Sissy shook her head.
“I do.” Long Jim’s hands touched Boomer, and Boomer was no longer fearful. “That’s right,” Long Jim told him. “You know what I am now, don’t you, fella? Ain’t goin’ to hurt you none.”
Judy was still frightened, as Sissy saw; she found Long Jim frightening herself, but kept her grip on Boomer’s bridle. “He says that you don’t scare him any more. It’s funny, but I could understand him. It’s as if he could talk.”
“You can do that here,” Long Jim told her. “You can do it there, too, only not so many trouble. It’s better here—easier. I got a gun. Want me to show it to you?”
Sissy shook her head.
“Here ’tis.” He pulled down the slider on his windbreaker and drew a large automatic. “Colt forty-five, same as we had in the Army. Wasn’t my T / O & E weapon, but I took familiarization. Everybody had to.”
When Sissy did not reply, he added, “I’m compelled.”
“You’re sick,” she told him. “You ought to see a doctor.” The wind from the sea had chilled her; she shivered.
“I’ve seen some, and they ain’t much. Walkin’down the road, had a snoot-full, I guess. It don’t do much for me any more.” He replaced the automatic, zipped his windbreaker, and picked up Boomer’s saddle and blanket. “We best put these back on him—don’t want to carry ’em. Girls don’t do much for me, neither.”
“Maybe if you felt better—”
“But they do somethin’. Morgan give me this gun. You know Morgan?”
Sissy shook her head. “Where’s Judy?”
“The little girl? Gone off someplace. She’s not comin’ with us anyhow.”
“Oh, my God!” Seth exclaimed.
Mercedes glanced up. “What is it?”
“It’s that damn cat.”
She rose and stepped to the tiny window cut into the rock. The sheer cliff beyond the stone sill dropped fifty feet or more to a boulder-strewn beach; a black cat was leaping from boulder to boulder just clear of the breakers, apparently in search of stranded fish. “Have you seen it before?” Mercedes asked.
“You bet I have. He’s my cousin’s, and the first time I tried to pick him up he ruined my lucky shirt.”
“You can’t possibly tell from here.”
Seth pointed. “I’d know that dirty cat anywhere—see how he holds his head? That white patch on one side? He got hurt there, and the hair never grew back right.”
“Maybe that’s why he scratched you.”
“What?” Seth glanced at her.
“Maybe you reminded him of the way he got hurt that time.”
“He fights. He comes home all bloody, and little Judy has to clean him up before my grandmother will let him back in the house.”
“You ought to find out what he’s fighting before you blame him for that,” Mercedes told him, “and why he’s fighting them.” She thrust one hand through the narrow space between the side of the window and its single bar. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”
“It’s just fighting with other tomcats,” Seth assured her. “Besides, nobody but Judy would want a tomcat. They fight all the time, and they spray the furniture.”
“Must leave him hard up for sparring partners,” Mercedes remarked. “Here, kitty! Up here!”
Slowly, G. Gordon Kitty turned to face her and sat down on the boulder on which he had been standing. For a long time he stared up at their narrow window through slitted emerald eyes, absently washing one paw after the other.
31
RESCUE PARTY
“OH, IT is a grand old city,” sang Shields,
“In the fine old country style.
A credit to the County Down,
The pride of the Emerald Isle.
It has the finest harbor,
For the bread carts to sail in.
And if ever you sail to Ireland,
You’ll sail by Magheralin.”
“Willie, I do wish you’d stop that.”
“’Tis the custom of the Irish,” Shields told his wife, “to sing loudly before going into battle.”
Wrangler twisted around in his seat to look at him. “You expecting a fight?”
Shields nodded.
Ann said, “Negotiate, Willie. You know, just like selling a car.”
“To negotiate,” Shields observed, “one must have something to offer in return. I have a new car, the customer has dollars. I’ll undercut the sticker if he’ll take the deluxe trim package with air conditioning, finance through us, and so forth. What, exactly, are we going to offer the Deeny Shee?”
“Who in the world—?”
“The Fair Folk, Ann. The People of Peace. We’ve been sold a bill of goods.”
The old Cherokee swung off onto the road leading to Baker’s knob.
From the front seat Wrangler said, “Reckon we got the same idea—he’s one himself. That what you’ve been thinkin’?”
Shields nodded. “One of whatever they really are. Or else he’s working for them.”
“Willie! That nice doctor?”
“The nice expert who showed up just when we needed such an expert? Yes. The nice doctor who told us that fairies can make themselves look like somebody we know but never bothered to make any of us prove we’re who we say we are, and who’s sending seven people off in a couple of cars to bring back four more. Can you imagine squeezing all eleven of us into these two cars, even if one’s a child?” Shields recalled the huge and hairy creature he had wrestled in the barn and shuddered. “The nice doctor who’s taken us off fairy hunting without weapons.”
“Why’d you come, then?” Wrangler asked.
“Because the only way we’ve got any chance of getting Merc back is to walk into the trap and break out,” Shields told him.
Wrangler nodded. “Makes sense.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
“Only you�
��re more’n a hair off about not havin’ any guns.” Wrangler’s hand dipped into his denim jacket and emerged with a long-barreled revolver, displayed it, and replaced it.
Ann’s mouth formed a little 0, but Shields grinned. “Good for you, Wrangler. We may need that.”
“I only fetched it out ‘cause he told me,” Wrangler said. “Back when Miss Lisa here and the other ladies was fixin’ tea and coffee and suchlike, remember? He took me off to the side, sort of, and said he knew I’d lost my thirty-thirty, but did I maybe have another gun? And I told him, yep, I got this’un, it used to be my brother Bart’s. Bart went off lookin’ for gold in the Superstitions, and nobody ever did find him. But he left a lot of his stuff back home ‘cause of not wantin’ to load up too heavy, and this was part of it. It’s a Smith and Wesson forty-four special, and you can drive tacks with it if you can hold it steady enough.”
The battered Cherokee had been laboring hard to carry four people up the steep and narrow road, its manual transmission in second arid its accelerator pedal nearly to the floor. Now Lisa eased back on it. “They’re going to stop, I think.” The brake lights of the Oldsmobile flared, and she swung onto the shoulder behind it.
In a moment more von Madadh was tapping at her window, and she rolled it down.
“We are here,” he announced. “I have a flashlight, and I had planned to search for Mercedes’s mysterious shortcut at this point; but I saw it as we drove up, so there’s no need for that. Mr. Shields, Mrs. Shindler, Ms. Solomon—can any of you shoot? Do you know how to handle a gun?”
Shields nodded, and Lisa said, “I’ve shot a little skeet.”
“Excellent. I didn’t want to worry you before we left, but I’ve borrowed several weapons from Mrs. Howard. Her late husband was something of a hunter, it seems. I think it might be useful for anybody who understands such matters—I confess I don’t—to have one. So if you would be so kind … ?”