Dreaming Jewels

by Theodore Sturgeon

“Go on.”

  “I’ve been—ah—looking, you know—that is, if that boy has grown up, he might be resentful, you understand… besides, he was a most unbalanced child, and one never knows how these things might affect a weak mind—”

  “You mean you feel guilty as hell and scared to boot, and you’ve been watching for a young man with some fingers missing. Fingers—get to the point! What has this to do with the girl?” Monetre’s voice was a whip.

  “I can’t—say exactly,” mumbled the Judge. “She seemed to know something about the boy. I mean, she hinted something about him—said that she was going to remind me of a way I had—hurt someone once. And then she took a cleaver and cut off her fingers. She disappeared. I had a man locate her. He found out she was due here—my man sent for me. That’s all.”

  Monetre closed his eyes and thought hard. “There was nothing wrong with her fingers when she was in here.”

  “Damn it, I know that! But I tell you, I saw, with my own eyes—”

  “All right, all right. She cut them off. Now, exactly why did you come here?”

  “I—that’s all. When something like that happens it makes you forget everything you know and start right from scratch. What I saw was impossible, and I began thinking in a way that let anything be possible… anyth—”

  “Come to the point!” roared the Maneater.

  “There is none!” Bluett roared back. They glared at each other for a crackling moment. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you; I don’t know. I remembered that child and his crushed fingers, and there was this girl and what she did. I began wondering if she and the boy were the same… I told you ‘impossible’ didn’t matter any more. Well, the girl had a perfectly good hand before she chopped into it. If, somehow, she was that boy, he must have grown the fingers back. If he could do it once, he could do it again. If he knew he could do it again, he wouldn’t be afraid to cut them off.” The judge threw up his hands and shrugged, and let his arms fall limply. “So I began to wonder what manner of creature could grow fingers at will. That’s all.”

  Monetre made wide eaves of his lids, his burning dark eyes studying the Judge. “This—boy who might be a girl,” he murmured. “What was his name?”

  “Horton. Horty, we called him. Vicious little scut.”

  “Think, now. Was there anything strange about him as a child?”

  “I should say so! I don’t think he was sane. Clinging to baby-toys—that sort of thing. And he had filthy habits.”

  “What filthy habits?”

  “He was expelled from school for eating insects.”

  “Ah! Ants?”

  “How did you know?”

  Monetre rose, paced to the door and back. Excitement began to thump in his chest. “What baby-toys did he cling to?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember. It isn’t important.”

  “I’ll decide that,” snapped Monetre. “Think, man! If you value your life—”

  “I can’t think! I can’t!” Bluett looked up at the Maneater, and quailed before those blazing eyes. “It was some sort of a jack-in-the-box. A hideous thing.”

  “What did it look like? Speak up, damn it!”

  “What does it—oh, all right. It was this big, and it had a head on it like a Punch—you know, Punch and Judy. Big nose and chin. The boy hardly ever looked at it. But he had to have it near him. I threw it away one time and the doctor made me find it and bring it back. Horton almost died.”

  “He did, eh?” grunted Monetre tautly, triumphantly. “Now tell me—that toy had been with him since he was born, hadn’t it? And there was something about it—some sort of jeweled button, or something glittery?”

  “How did you know—” Bluett began again, and again quailed under the radiation of furious, excited impatience from the carny boss. “Yes. The eyes.”

  Monetre flung himself on the Judge. He grasped his shoulders, shook him. “You said ‘eye,’ didn’t you? There was only one jewel?” he panted.

  “Don’t—don’t—” wheezed Bluett, pushing weakly at Monetre’s taloned hands. “I said ‘eyes.’ Two eyes. They were both the same. Nasty looking things. Seemed to have a light of their own.”

  Monetre straightened slowly, backed off. “Two of them,” he breathed. “Two…”

  He closed his eyes, his brain humming. Disappearing boy, fingers… fingers crushed. Girl… the right age, too… Horton. Horton… Horty. His mind looped and wheeled back over the years. A small brown face, peaked with pain, saying, “My folks called me Hortense, but everyone calls me Kiddo.” Kiddo, who had arrived with a crushed hand, and had left the carnival two years ago. What had happened when she left? He had wanted something, wanted to examine her hand, and she left during the night.

  That hand. When she first arrived, he had cleaned it up, trimmed away the ruined flesh, sewed it up. He had treated it every day for weeks, until the scartissue was fused over, and there was no further danger of infection; and then, somehow or other he had never looked at it again. Why not? Oh—Zena. Zena had always told him how Kiddo’s hand was getting along.

  He opened his eyes—slits, now. “I’ll find him,” he snarled.

  There was a knock at the door, and a voice. “Maneater—”

  “It’s the midget,” babbled Bluett, leaping up. “With the girl. What shall I—where shall—”

  Monetre sent him a look which wilted him, tumbled him back in his chair. The carny boss rose and stilted to the door, opening it a crack. “Get her?”

  “Gosh, Maneater, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” said Monetre in a terrible whisper. “You didn’t bring her back. I sent you to get her and you didn’t do it.” He closed the door with great care and turned to the Judge. “Go away.”

  “Eh? Hm. But what about the—”

  “Go away!” It was a scream. As his glare had made Bluett limp, his voice stiffened him. The Judge was on his feet and moving doorward before the scream had ceased to be a sound. He tried to speak, and succeeded only in moving his wet mouth.

  “I’m the only one in the world who can help you,” said Monetre; and the Judge’s face showed that this easy, quiet, conversational tone was the most shocking thing of all. He went to the door and paused. Monetre said, “I will do what I can, Judge. You’ll hear from me very soon, you may be sure of that.”

  “Ah,” said the Judge. “Mm. Anything I can do, Mr. Monetre. Call on me. Anything at all.”

  “Thank you. I shall certainly need your help.” Monetre’s bony features froze the instant he stopped speaking. Bluett fled.

  Pierre Monetre stood staring at the space where the Judge’s bloated face had just been. Suddenly he balled his fist and smashed it into his palm. “Zena!” said only his lips. He went pale with fury, weak with it, and went to his desk. He sat down, put his elbows on the blotter and his chin in his hand, and began to send out waves of feral hatred and demand.

  Zena!

  Zena!

  Here! Come Here!

  13

  HORTY LAUGHED. HE LOOKED at his left hand, at the three stubs of fingers which rose, like unspread mushrooms, from his knuckles, touched the scar-tissue around them with his other hand, and he laughed.

  He rose from the studio couch and crossed the wide room to the cheval glass, to stare at his face, to stand back and look critically at his shoulders, his profile. He grunted in satisfaction and went to the telephone in the bedroom.

  “Three four four,” he said. His voice was resonant, well suited to the cast of his solid chin and his wide mouth. “Nick? This is Sam Horton. Oh, fine. Sure, I’ll be able to play again. The doc says I was lucky. A broken wrist usually heals pretty stiff, but this one won’t. No—don’t worry. Hm? About six weeks. Positively… Gold? Thanks Nick, but I’ll get along. No, don’t worry—I’ll yell if I need any. Thanks, though. Yeah, I’ll drop by every once in a while. I was in there a couple days ago. Where did you find that three-chord bubblehead you have on guitar? He does by accident what Spike Jones does on purpose.
No, I didn’t want to hit him. I wanted to husk him.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. He’s okay. Well, thanks, Nick. ’Bye.”

  Going to the studio couch, he flung himself down with the confident relaxation of a well-fed feline. He pressed his shoulders luxuriously into the foam mattress, rolled and reached for one of the four books on the end table.

  They were the only books in the apartment. Long ago he had learned of the physical encroachment of books, and the difficulties of overflowing book-cases. His solution was to get rid of them all, and make an arrangement with his dealer to send him four books a day—new books, on a rental basis. He read them all, and always returned them on the next day. It was a satisfactory solution, for him. He had total recall. What use, then, were book-cases?

  He owned two pictures—a Markell, meticulously unmatched irregular shapes, varying in their apparent transparency, superimposed one on the other so that the tone of each affected the others, and so that the color of the background affected everything. The other was a Mondrian, precise and balanced, and conveying an almost-impression of something which could never quite be anything.

  He owned, however, miles of magnetic tape on which was recorded a magnificent collection of music. Horty’s fabulous mind could retain the whole mood of a book, and recall any part of it. It could do the same with music; but to recall music is to generate it to a certain degree, and there is a decided difference in the coloration of a mind which hears music and one which makes it. Horty could do both, and his music library made it possible for him to do either.

  He had the classics and the romantics which had been Zena’s favorites, the symphonies, concerti, ballads and virtuosic showpieces which had been his introduction to music. But his tastes had widened and deepened, and now included Honnegger and Copland, Shostakovitch and Walton. In the popular field he had discovered Tatum’s somber chordings and the incredible Thelonius Monk. He had the occasionally inspired trumpet of Dizzy Gillespie, the bewildering cadenzas of Ella Fitzgerald, the faultless production of Pearl Bailey’s voice. His criterion in all of it was humanity and the extensions of humanity. He lived with books that led to books, art that led him to conjecture, music that led him to worlds beyond worlds of experience.

  Yet for all these riches, Horty’s rooms were simply furnished. The only unconventional article of furniture was the tape recorder and reproducer—a massive incorporation of high-fidelity components which Horty had been led to assemble because of an ear that demanded every nuance, every overtone, of every instrumental voice. Otherwise his rooms were like anyone’s comfortably appointed, tastefully decorated apartment. It occurred to him, fleetingly and at long intervals, that with his resources he could surround himself with automatic luxury-machines like back-kneading chairs and air-conditioned drying chambers for after his shower. But he was never moved in such directions. His mind was simply and steadily acquisitive. His analytical abilities were phenomenal, but he was seldom moved to use them extensively. Therefore to acquire knowledge was sufficient; its use could wait for demand, and there was little demand coexistent with his utter and demonstrable confidence in his own powers.

  Halfway through his book he stopped, a puzzled expression in his eyes. It was as if a special sound had reached him—yet none had.

  He closed the book and racked it, rose to stand listening, turning his head slightly as if he were trying to fix the source of the sensation.

  The doorbell rang.

  Horty stopped moving. It was not a freeze, the startled immobilization of a frightened animal. It was more a controlled, relaxed split second for thought. Then he moved again, balanced and easily.

  At the door he paused, staring at the lower panel. His face tightened, and a swift frown rippled on his brow. He flung the door open.

  She stood crookedly in the hallway, looking up at him with her eyes. Her head was turned sidewise and a little downward. She had to strain her eyes painfully to meet his; she was only four feet tall.

  She said, faintly, “Horty?”

  He made a hoarse sound and knelt, pulling her into his arms, holding her with power and gentleness. “Zee… Zee, what happened? Your face, your—” He picked her up and kicked the door shut and carried her over to the studio couch, to sit with her across his knees, cradled in his arms, her head resting in the warm strong hollow of his right hand. She smiled at him. Only one side of her mouth moved. Then she began to cry, and Horty’s own tears curtained from him the sight of her ravaged face.

  Her sobs stopped soon, as if she were simply too tired to continue. She looked at his face, all of it, part by part. She brought her hand up and touched his hair. “Horty…” she whispered. “I loved you so much the way you were…”

  “I haven’t changed,” he said. “I’m a big grown-up man now. I have an apartment and a job. I have this voice and these shoulders and I weigh a hundred pounds more than I did three years ago.” He bent and kissed her quickly. “But I haven’t changed, Zee. I haven’t changed.” He touched her face, a careful, feathery contact. “Do you hurt?”

  “Some.” She closed her eyes and wet her lips. Her tongue seemed unable to reach one corner of her mouth. “I’ve changed.”

  “You’ve been changed,” he said, his voice shaking. “The Maneater?”

  “Of course. You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Not really. I thought once you were calling me. Or he was… it was far away. But anyway, no one else would have—would… what happened? Do you want to tell me?”

  “Oh yes. He—found out about you. I don’t understand how. Your—that Armand Bluett—he’s a judge or something now. He came to see the Maneater. He thought you were a girl. A big girl, I mean.”

  “I was, for a while.” He smiled tensely.

  “Oh. Oh, I see. Were you really at the carnival that day?”

  “At the carnival? No. What day, Zee? You mean when he found out?”

  “Yes. Four—no; five days ago. You weren’t there. I don’t under—” She shrugged. “Anyway, a girl came to see the Maneater and the Judge followed her and thought she was you. The Maneater thought so too. He sent Havana looking for her. Havana couldn’t find her.”

  “And then the Maneater got hold of you.”

  “Mm. I didn’t mean to tell him, Horty. I didn’t. Not for a long time, anyway. I—forget.” She closed her eyes again. Horty trembled suddenly, and then could breathe.

  “I don’t… remember,” she said with difficulty.

  “Don’t try. Don’t talk any more,” he murmured.

  “I want to. I’ve got to. He mustn’t find you!” she said. “He’s hunting for you right this minute!”

  Horty’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Good.”

  Her eyes were still closed. She said, “It was a long time. He talked very quietly. He gave me cushions and some wine that tasted like autumn. He talked about the carnival and Solum and Gogol. He mentioned ‘Kiddo’ and then talked about the new flat cars and the commissary tent and the trouble with the roustabouts’ union. He said something about the musicians’ union and something about music and something about the guitar and then about the act we used to have. Then he was off again about the menageries and the shills and the advance men, and back again. You see? Just barely mentioning you and going away and coming back and back. All night, Horty, all, all night!”

  “Sh-h-h.”

  “He wouldn’t ask me! He talked with his head turned away watching me out of the corners of his eyes. I sat and tried to sip the wine, and tried to eat when Cooky brought dinner and midnight lunch and breakfast, and tried to smile when he stopped for a minute. He didn’t touch me, he didn’t hit me, he didn’t ask me!”

  “He did later,” breathed Horty.

  “Much later. I don’t remember… his face over me like a moon, once. I hurt all over. He shouted. Who is Horty, where is Horty, who is Kiddo, why did I hide Kiddo…. I woke up and woke up. I don’t remember the times I slept, or fainted, or whatever it was. I woke up with my blood in my eyes, drying, and he was ta
lking about the ride mechanics and the power for the floodlights. I woke up in his arms, he was whispering in my ear about Bunny and Havana, they must have known what Horty was. I woke up on the floor. My knee hurt. There was a terrible light. I jumped up with the pain of it. I ran out the door and fell down, my knee wouldn’t work, it was in the afternoon and he caught me and dragged me back again and threw me on the floor and made the light again. He had a burning glass and he gave me vinegar to drink. My tongue swelled, I—”

  “Sh-h-h. Zena, honey, hush. Don’t say any more.”

  The flat, uninflected voice went on. “I lay still when Bunny looked in and the Maneater didn’t know she saw what he was doing and Bunny ran away and Havana came and hit the Maneater with a piece of pipe and the Maneater broke his neck he’s going to die and I—”

  Horty’s eyelids felt dry. He raised a careful hand and slapped her smartly across her undamaged cheek. “Zena. Stop it!”

  At the impact she uttered a great shriek, and screamed, “I don’t know any more, truly I don’t!” and burst into painful, writhing sobs. Horty tried to speak to her but could not be heard through her weeping. He stood, turned, put her down gently on the couch, ran and wrung out a cloth in cold water and bathed her face and wrists. She stopped crying abruptly and fell asleep.

  Horty watched her until her breathing assured him that she was at peace. He put his head slowly down beside hers as he knelt on the floor beside the couch. Her hair was on his forehead. Half-crossing his arms, he grasped his elbows and began to pull them. He kept the tension until his shoulders and chest throbbed with pain. He needed to be near her, would not move, yet must relieve the black tension of fury which built in him, and the work his muscles did against each other saved his sanity without the slightest movement to disturb the sleeping girl. He knelt there for a long time.

  At breakfast the next morning she could laugh again. Horty had not moved her or touched her except to remove her shoes and cover her with a down quilt. In the small hours of the morning he had taken a pillow from the bedroom and put it on the floor between the studio couch and the door, and had stretched out to listen to her breathing and, with feline attention, to each sound from the stairway and hall outside.