“Don’t be so hasty,’’ said Agatha, removing the photo album and flipping through its pages. She was about half-way through the heavy black pages when she came upon a series of snapshots taken during World War II, the first one captioned, Honolulu, March 19th, 1942. Encouraged, she slowed down and perused them carefully. On the fourth page of war pictures she found what she had been looking for: an angular young man in a Navy uniform standing on the steps of a South Pacific house. He was next to an older native man in a printed regional skirt topped off by a G.I. blouse and a number of wooden necklaces; the islander was offering the young naval officer what looked to be a model of a house very similar to the one in front of which they stood. The line of the front of the house made it appear that they were in front of a grinning mouth. Both men were looking pleased. Agatha held up the album. “Martin. This is very useful. This is the Spirit House. It not only shows us what we’re looking for, it provides a kind of provenance—you’ll need that to make a donation. You can prove the item wasn’t stolen, and that could be important.’’
Martin stared down at the photograph. “Looks kind of flimsy—the real house, I mean, like it couldn’t do more than keep off the rain,’’ he said, for the first time allowing a little doubt to slip into his tone.
“Most of the inhabitants of the South Pacific islands don’t need to stay warm; they need to stay cool,’’ said Agatha, finding a loose clipping and using that to bookmark the page in the album.
“I suppose you’re right,’’ said Martin, pulling up the lid of the second box. “Shi—oot!’’
“What is it?’’ She set the album aside, and went to where he was bending over the open box.
“Uniforms. A pair of shoes. Useless!’’ He clicked his tongue in disgusted disappointment.
“Not necessarily,’’ said Agatha, as much to keep Martin working as to encourage him in his hope for a windfall. “There’s bound to be an historical society that would be glad to have these for display.’’
Trying not to seem too dissatisfied, Martin put the lid back on the box. “Do you really think so?’’
“Of course I do.’’ She reached for the third box in the stack, a bit put off by his obvious greed.
“Or maybe I could sell them on eBay? What do you think?’’
“You probably could,’’ Agatha agreed flatly.
“I could probably sell a lot of this stuff, couldn’t I?’’ He smiled again, and began a pile of the first two boxes near the foot of the stairs. “Come on—there’s seventeen boxes to go.’’
They were on to the fourteenth box when Martin gave a long whistle of discovery. “Looks like this is the one. It’s not in very good shape; stored on its side.’’ He pointed his flashlight straight down and revealed a finely woven mat of some kind of vegetable fiber. Newspapers from 1951 surrounded the item; he tossed them aside and pulled the thing from its resting place.
It was about the size of a microwave oven, beautifully detailed even in its neglected condition. The front was readily identified: there was a wide verandah spread out on either side of four central stairs leading up into the house itself. A railing along the verandah stood up on little posts like teeth, the railing collapsed where the thread holding the rails on had rotted. The main rafter supported a kind of bamboo thatch, and the woven-mat walls, even though they were brittle and cracked in a few places, had not fallen apart. A number of squat gods no bigger than the last joint of Martin’s little finger were ranged about the little house, posted at every door and window.
“Now, this is more like it,’’ said Martin. He looked over at Agatha. “What do you think?’’
“I think it’s remarkable,’’ she answered, staring at the Spirit House; it was in fine condition, considering its haphazard storage. “It’s the one in the photo, that’s for sure.’’
Martin laughed out loud. “Six boxes of collectable stuff, and this.’’ He put the Spirit House down carefully on the workbench under the largest of the basement windows. “I should have thought about this when we first moved in. Thanks, Aunt Agatha. I owe you one.’’
Agatha took the Spirit House from him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at it. If it’s as unusual as I think, there are a couple colleagues I’d like to call—to get an idea where you might donate it. You’d like it to go someplace with a fine reputation and a superior collection, wouldn’t you?’’
“Why can’t you handle it yourself?’’ He gave her a sudden, hard look.
“Because the South Pacific islands are not my field of specialization. If this were from Turkey and at least two thousand years old, I could find you just the right place with a couple of e-mails. But twentieth century and South Pacific? I only know it’s a good piece. I’ll call a couple of museums, and I’ll e-mail a colleague in Australia. I should be able to get you solid information by Monday.’’
Martin considered this, finally nodding. “That’s okay with me, then. But it has to go to a place where I’d get a tax deduction. Keep that in mind, Aunt Agatha.’’
She bit back the sharp retort and said only, “I’ll bear that in mind.’’
It was Tuesday morning before Constantine Hildred called from the National Anthropological Museum; his call, coming at that hour, told Agatha that he was about to leave his office for lunch.
“I got your e-mail about the Spirit House and the photos you attached,’’ he said after a quick exchange of pleasantries. “Tell me more about this find.’’
“Well, as far as I can tell, it was acquired by the former owner of this house some time during World War II. We found it on Saturday, packed away in the basement,’’ she said as she went to the desk where she had set up the Spirit House next to her laptop, grinning contentedly out at the room. She said nothing about the disturbing dreams that had filled her sleep for the last three nights—not that they mattered. She logged into her e-mail, just in case.
“Yeah, I got that from the old photo you attached with the rest. Go on.’’
“It’s rumored to be haunted, but given what it appears to be, that’s hardly surprising,’’ said Agatha.
“Tell me about the little gods in the Spirit House; it’ll help me identify where it came from.’’
Agatha picked up a small magnifying glass and peered into the little house. “They’re the usual small, squat gods. The carving looks as if it might come from the Philippines or Indonesia.’’
“Can you tell me anything about them that’s more specific? Don’t worry. I’m interested in the piece, but I want to know what kind of thing I’ll be getting. I don’t want any trouble with it.’’
“Why should this be trouble? Are you worried about provenance?’’
“More about the nature of the thing,’’ said Constantine.
“More national treasure issues, you mean?’’ she asked.
“Ethnic ones, anyway,’’ he said.
“Okay, Conny.’’ She lifted her magnifying glass again. “There’s two that are female—long breasts, and one with a bone in her hand. There’re carvings along the main rafter, very intricate. Would you like me to photograph them and attach the photos to an e-mail?’’
“How soon can you do it?’’
“I’ve got my camera right here,’’ said Agatha, ready to put it to use.
“Okay. Take a couple and send them along right now. And while you’re at it, take another of the front of the house, if you would.’’
“Glad to,’’ said Agatha, lifting her camera and taking a half-dozen photos. She attached them to her e-mail to him and sent them on their way. “I gather the previous owner didn’t like the Spirit House,’’ she repeated while she listened to the keyboard click from Conny’s office.
There was a long silence, and then Hildred said. “Small wonder.’’
“Why?’’ Agatha asked with an uneasy glance at the Spirit House.
Hildred took a deep breath. “Because the people who made it are cannibals.’’
AH, YEHZ
&n
bsp; Alan Dean Foster
Archie had not known that some of the money was spoken for. Even if he had, he still might have been tempted to take it. A starving man will hesitate before stealing to eat, but an alcoholic in desperate need of a drink will swipe anything unguarded that is left for the taking.
So it was with Archie. He had paused only briefly before scaling the fence that walled off the cemetery from the street. It was two in the morning, a time that downtown was devoid of tourists and safe to attempt a quick snatch and grab. Having worked the same location on several previous occasions, there was no reason to suppose anything would go wrong. This time something had. A concerned citizen objected to him absconding with the loose change.
A citizen who happened to be very dead.
There was nothing dormant about the deceased’s outrage, however. As a frantic Archie scooped up the last of the scattered coins, sending pennies and nickels bouncing and rolling across surrounding gravestones, a rapidly expanding humanoid shape writhed and coiled itself right up out of the grave that lay beneath the last forlorn dime. Ashen and angry, heavily bearded and clad in the tattered clothes of a bygone age, it howled curses in English and screams in banshee as it chased a terrified Archie back over the fence. Which is to say that Archie went over the fence. His pallid pursuer went right through it, shades of the dead being able to pass through solid objects with little difficulty.
In contrast to its ghostly owner, the heavy cane the angry specter swung at Archie possessed a disconcerting solidity. Descending in a potentially lethal arc, it connected painfully with his right shoulder and nearly brought him to the ground as he continued shoving the purloined coins deeper into his pockets. For the life of him Archie could not imagine what he had done to provoke the horrific response from the usually indifferent earth. Why now, why on this night, had one of the long-buried chosen to rise up and come after him? What aspect of his early morning theft had transpired differently?
None of that would matter if the phantasm, or boogeyman, or ghost, or whatever kind of horror it was that was hot on his heels, actually caught up with him. His throbbing shoulder was testament to that. If that flailing spectral club came down on his head . . .
A sensible person might have considered giving up the money. But a sensible person did not filch coins from national monuments in the middle of a chill November night. Archie needed to live, yes, but in order to live he needed to drink. He needed to drink more than he needed to eat. He hung onto the pocketful of coins and kept running.
Not many people chose to stroll the streets of downtown Philadelphia at two in the morning. Those who did and happened to encounter the hysterical Archie saw a young man older than his years, unkempt and cheaply clad, running pell-mell down Church Street toward the river while constantly looking back over his shoulders. Presuming him to be afflicted by some possibly dangerous variant of the DTs, the other nocturnal walkers understandably gave him a wide berth.
“Give me back me money, y’no-good thief! I’ll break yer bones, I swan I will!’’ Cane held high, the outline of the ethereal specter feathered slightly as it rounded a corner before collecting itself once more.
Not in the best of health to begin with, Archie raced on. In the absence of wind, muscle tone, or conditioning, he could only rely on fear to give strength to his pounding legs. Now even that was beginning to fade.
A light gleamed just ahead, the warm inviting glow of a bar, open even at this hour. Another time Archie might have wondered why any bar stayed open so late. Now he saw only a potential refuge from the cold, forbidding streets and the inexorable wraith that was steadily closing the distance between them. But even if he ducked inside, what was there to prevent his pursuer from following? He would find himself cornered. Worse, any barkeep working at this inhospitable hour would be in no mood to give shelter to an obvious drunk. He had to make a decision fast: run on past or go inside?
The figure standing just outside the doorway settled the matter for him. Puffing away on a fat cigar, the smoker’s attention was understandably drawn to the fleeing Archie. Sizing up the situation, the portly figure straightened. His voice was somewhat grating and his words oddly drawn out, but it was their content rather than their context that persuaded Archie.
“Over here, boy! Get in behind me!’’
Archie did not have to be told twice. Completely out of breath as well as options, he stumbled to a halt behind the hefty figure and tried to shrink himself into invisibility. In the event of catastrophe he could still try hiding inside the open bar.
Confronted by this unanticipated interposition, the ghostly figure of Archie’s pursuer slowed to a halt, his cane still held threateningly high in one half-skeletal fist.
“What manner of interference is this?’’ he hissed. “This be no business of yours, sor, and I’ll thank ye t’mind yer own business and stand aside so that justice may be done in this matter!’’
“All in good time, my good man, all in good time.’’ The cigar migrated from one corner of the smoker’s mouth to the other. He glanced briefly back down at the malnourished youth cowering behind him. “Now then, what’s this pitiful young man done to merit such blatant hostility? Not that I’ve any inherent objection to the deliverance of a good beating, but there ought to be cause.’’
“Cause?’’ Grimacing, the hovering shade revealed ragged, broken teeth, the consequence of some hundred plus years of slow disintegration. “ ’Tis cause ye want, is it?’’ Lowering the cane, he angrily shook the tip in the direction of the cowering Archie. “Stole money that were given t’me by the good people of this city, he did! Helped himself to it without so much as a by-your-leave!’’
Again, the stout smoker looked back at the younger man trembling behind him. “Is what this memory of a man says true, m’boy?’’
Archie hesitated, then found himself nodding miserably. “Yes—yes, I took some coins. I’ve been doing it for a long time and nothing ever happened, ever!’’ He peered out from behind his protector. “I don’t know what I did different.’’
Adjusting the high hat he wore, his sapient shielder nodded sagely. “Well then, m’boy, just give this decrepit dozer his money back and be done with it, yehz? If it’s just food that you need, or shelter . . .’’
Abandoning himself to confession, Archie did something remarkable. He told the truth. “I can’t—I can’t do that, sir. I—you see, I haven’t had a drink in days.’’ He licked his lips to emphasize his discomfort. “I’ve got the shakes real bad, and I just—I can’t.’’
His protector’s eyes widened slightly. “A drink is it you need? Ah, yehz. Why, that changes everything.’’ He turned back to the floating, and increasingly impatient, eidolon. “Have you no sympathy for the lad, then, my good man? Have you no understanding, no compassion? Why, what we are confronted with here is nothing less than a crisis of the human spirit! Why, not to assist the lad would be to deny the very essence of his humanity, yehz!’’
The cane threatened. “I want the money he took off me grave!’’
“Is it not better to . . .’’ The smoker paused. “Wait just a moment now. Off your grave, you say?’’ He looked back at the wretched figure crouched down behind him. “M’boy, did you plot to steal coins off this man’s plot?’’
“I always take money off Franklin’s grave,’’ Archie protested reluctantly. “It’s mostly pennies, which are supposed to bring the thrower luck, but not everybody knows that. Lots of times they throw dimes and nickels, and sometimes quarters.’’ His expression brightened ever so slightly. “Sometimes you can scrape together enough for a bottle!’’
His interlocutor nodded understandingly, then raised a hand and pointed at the waiting wraith. “I ask you now, m’boy: does this desiccated rag of suppurating, degraded flesh in any way resemble the noble Franklin?’’
“Hey, just a minute now . . .’’ the apparition began angrily.
Peering out from behind one of the older man’s legs, Archie regarded his pur
suer hesitantly. “Uh, no. No, he doesn’t.’’
The cane shook violently in their direction. “My name is Thaddeus James Walker, you young fool! Mayhap old Franklin doesn’t care about the coins that the credulous fling onto his gravestone, but I care about the ones that come my way. You’ve no right to take them!’’
“Ah yehz,’’ Archie’s savior muttered under his breath, “Saving for a glorious spending spree in the hereafter, are we? Planning to open an account at the Philadelphia Savings and Loan for the Long Demised?’’
“Well . . .’’ The drifting phantom looked suddenly confused. “That be beside the point. Theft is theft!’’
“Yehz, yehz, I do not question your overall analysis of the situation, my friend. But can you not make an exception for this poor lad you see shivering behind me, of whom I suspect he is about to pee in his pants? Take it from one who knows, sir, his need is dire as it is true. Can you not leave him free to indulge himself this one night? You have my personal assurance the offense shall not be repeated.’’
The flickering, cane-wielding shadow hesitated. Then he lowered his weapon. “Well—all right. But just this one time.’’ He shook the heavy stick in Archie’s direction and Archie flinched, drawing back behind his protector. “I’ll do it on your word, William. But only this one time. If I ever see him stealing from me again I’ll cave his skull in. You can be assured of that!’’
Having delivered those final words of warning, the shade of the long-dead and much desiccated Thaddeus James Walker whirled about and did not so much stride off into the darkness as evaporate into the night.
Shaking as much from need as fear, Archie slowly straightened. “I—I don’t know how to thank you, sir! I—was that a real ghost?’’
An arm swung around Archie’s shoulder as his new friend guided him toward the beckoning doorway. “What’s real and what’s imaginary, m’boy, often stumble across one another in a burg as old as this. As for thanking me, why, you can buy me a drink. Have your illegitimate nocturnal perambulations garnered you enough for that?’’
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