The Best of Gene Wolfe: A Definitive Retrospective of His Finest Short Fiction

by Gene Wolfe

  There was a bee, or perhaps a wasp, on the plant, nearly invisible against a yellow leaf. It did not appear to him to be exploring the surface in the usual beeish or waspish way, but rather to be listening, head raised, to their conversation. The room was bugged. He wanted to say, This room is bugged, but before he could, Bev announced, “Your move, I think, Ed.”

  Ed said, “Bishop’s pawn to the bishop’s four.”

  Debbie threw the dice and counted eight squares along the edge of the board. “Oh, good! Park Place, and I’ll buy it.” She handed him her money, and he gave her the deed.

  Bev said, “Your turn.”

  He nodded, stuffed Debbie’s money into his pocket, shuffled the cards, and read the top one.

  You are Randolph Carter.

  Three times you have dreamed

  of the marvelous city, Randolph Carter,

  and three times you have been snatched away

  from the high terrace above it.

  Randolph Carter nodded again and put the card down. Debbie handed him a small pewter figure, a young man in old-fashioned clothes.

  Bev asked, “ ‘Where did the fictional American philosopher Thomas Olney teach?’ Ed?”

  “A fictional philosopher? Harvard, I suppose. Is it John Updike?”

  “Wrong. Debbie?”

  “Pass.”

  “Okay. Randy?”

  “London.”

  Outside, a cloud covered the sun. The room grew darker as the light from the broken windows diminished.

  Edgar said, “Good shot. Is he right, Bev?”

  The bee, or wasp, rose from its leaf and buzzed around Edgar’s bald head. He slapped at it, missing it by a fraction of an inch. “There’s a fly in here!”

  “Not now. I think it went out the window.”

  It had indeed been a fly, he saw, and not a bee or wasp at all—a bluebottle, no doubt gorged with carrion.

  Bev said, “Kingsport, Massachusetts.”

  With an ivory hand, Edgar moved an ivory chessman. “Knight to the king’s three.”

  Debbie tossed her dice onto the board. “Chance.”

  He picked up the card for her.

  You must descend the seven hundred steps

  to the Gate of Deeper Slumber.

  You may enter the Enchanted Wood

  or claim the sword Sacnoth.

  Which do you choose?

  Debbie said, “I take the Enchanted Wood. That leaves you the sword, Randy.”

  Bev handed it to him. It was a falchion, he decided, curved and single edged. After testing the edge with his finger, he laid it in his lap. It was not nearly as large as a real sword—less than sixteen inches long, he decided, including the hardwood handle.

  “Your turn, Randy.”

  He discovered that he disliked Bev nearly as much as Debbie, hated her bleached blond hair, her scrawny neck. Bev and her dying plant were twins, one vegetable, one inhuman. He had not known that before.

  She said, “It’s the wheel of Fortune,” as though he were stupid. He flicked the spinner.

  “Unlawful evil.”

  Bev said, “Right,” and picked up a card. “ ‘What do the following have in common: Pogo the Clown, H. H. Holmes, and Saucy Jacky?’ ”

  Edgar said, “That’s an easy one. They’re all pseudonyms of mass murderers.”

  “Right. ‘For an extra point, name the murderers.’”

  “Gacy, Mudgett, and . . . that’s not fair. No one knows who the Ripper was.”

  But he did: just another guy, a guy like anybody else.

  Debbie tossed her dice. “Whitechapel. I’ll buy it. Give me the card, honey.”

  He picked up the deed and studied it. “Low rents.”

  Edgar chuckled. “And seldom paid.”

  “I know,” Debbie told them, “but I want it, with lots of houses.” He handed her the card, and she gave him the dice.

  For a moment he rattled them in his hand, trying to imagine himself the little pewter man. It was no use; there was nothing of bright metal about him or his dark wool coat—only the edge of the knife. “Seven-come-eleven,” he said, and threw.

  “You got it,” Debbie told him. “Seven. Shall I move it for you?”

  “No,” he said. He picked up the little pewter figure and walked past Holborn, the Temple (cavern-temple of Nasht and Kaman-Thah), and Lincolns Inn Fields, along Cornhill and Leadenhall streets to Aldgate High Street, and so at last to Whitechapel.

  Bev said, “You saw him coming, Deb,” but her voice was very far away, far above the the leaden (hall) clouds, filthy with coal smoke, that hung over the city. Wagons and hansom cabs rattled by. There was a public house at the corner of Brick Lane. He turned and went in.

  The barmaid handed him his large gin. The barmaid had Debbie’s dark hair, Debbie’s dark good looks. When he had paid her, she left the bar and took a seat at one of the tables. Two others sat there already, and there were cards and dice, money and drinks, before them. “Sit down,” she said, and he sat.

  The blonde turned over a card, the jack of spades. “What are the spades in a deck of cards?” she asked.

  “Swords,” he said. “From the Spanish word for a sword, espada. The jack of spades is really the jack of swords.”

  “Correct.”

  The other man said, “Knight to the White Chapel.”

  The door opened, letting in the evening with a wisp of fog, and the black knight. She was tall and slender and dressed like a cavalryman, in high boots and riding breeches. A pewter miniature of a knight’s shield was pinned to her dark shirt.

  The barmaid rattled the dice and threw.

  “You’re still alive,” the black knight said. She strode to their table. Sergeant’s chevrons had been sewn to the sleeves of the shirt. “This neighborhood is being evacuated, folks.”

  “Not by us,” the other man said.

  “By you now, sir. On my orders. As an officer of the law, I must order you to leave. There’s a tank car derailed, leaking some kind of gas.”

  “That’s fog,” Randolph Carter told her. “Fog and smoke.”

  “Not just fog. I’m sorry, sir, but I must ask all of you to go. How long have you been here?”

  “Sixteen years,” the blond woman said. “The neighborhood was a lot nicer when we came.”

  “It’s some sort of chemical weapon, like LSD.”

  He asked, “Don’t you want to sit down?” He stood, offering her his chair.

  “My shot must be wearing off. The shot was supposed to protect me. I’m Sergeant . . . Sergeant . . .”

  The other man said, “Very few of us are protected by shots, Sergeant Chapman. Shots usually kill people, particularly soldiers.”

  Randolph Carter looked at her shirt. The name chapman was engraved on a stiff plastic plate there, the plate held out like a little shelf by the thrust of her left breast.

  “Sergeant Anne Chapman of the United States Army. We think it’s the plants, sir. All the psychoactive drugs we know about come from plants—opium, cocaine, heroin.”

  “You’re the heroine,” he told her gently. “Coming here like this to get us out.”

  “All of them chemicals the plants have stumbled across to protect us from insects, really. And now they’ve found something to protect the insects from us.” She paused, staring at him. “That isn’t right, is it?”

  Again he asked, “Don’t you want to sit down?”

  “Gases from the comet. The comet’s tail has wrapped all Earth in poisonous gases.”

  The blonde murmured, “ ‘What is the meaning of this name given Satan: Beelzebub.’ ”

  A tiny voice from the ceiling answered.

  “You, sir,” the black knight said, “won’t you come with me? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You can’t get out of here,” the other man told them.

  Randolph Carter nodded to the knight. “I’ll come with you, if you’ll love me.” He rose, pushing the sword up his coat sleeve, point first.

  �
�Then come on.” She took him by the arm and pulled him through the door.

  A hansom cab rattled past.

  “What is this place?” She put both hands to her forehead. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? This is a nightmare.” There was a fly on her shoulder, a blowfly gorged with carrion. She brushed it off; it settled again, unwilling to fly through the night and the yellow fog. “No, I’m hallucinating.”

  He said, “I’d better take you to your room.” The bricks were wet and slippery underfoot. As they turned a corner, and another, he told her what she could do for him when they reached her room. A dead bitch lay in the gutter. Despite the night and the chill of autumn, the corpse was crawling with flies.

  Sickly yellow gaslight escaped from under a door. She tore herself from him and pushed it open. He came after her, his arms outstretched. “Is this where you live?”

  The three players still sat at their table. They had been joined by a fourth, a new Randolph Carter. As the door flew wide the fourth player turned to look, but he had no face.

  She whispered, “This is Hell, isn’t it? I’m in Hell, for what I did. Because of what we did. We’re all in Hell. I always thought it was just something the Church made up, something to keep you in line, you know what I mean, sir?”

  She was not talking to him, but he nodded sympathetically.

  “Just a game in the pope’s head. But it’s real, it’s here, and here we are.”

  “I’d better take you to your room,” he said again.

  She shuddered. “In Hell you can’t pray, isn’t that right? But I can—Listen! I can pray! Dear G—”

  He had wanted to wait, wanted to let her finish, but the sword, Sacnoth, would not wait. It entered her throat, more eager even than he, and emerged spent and swimming in scarlet blood.

  The faceless Randolph Carter rose from the table. “Your seat, young man,” he said through no mouth. “I’m merely the marker whom you have followed.”

  AFTERWORD

  There is a daydream, I believe, common to all of us who read mysteries. We are in a small group that is somehow isolated. A member of our group is murdered, and it is we who determine the identity of the killer.

  In the course of a life that has now grown lengthy, I have known three people who have actually been murdered. In one case, an old schoolmate was shot by her third husband. In another, a wealthy young woman who often came into my father’s café was murdered. Her husband was tried, acquitted, and subsequently murdered himself. The third was so fantastic that were I to describe it you would feel sure I was lying. There is a book about it: Eros, Magic, and the Murder of Professor Culianu. You will find my friend Jennifer Stevenson’s name in the index; Jennifer introduced me to Ioan Culianu.

  You see that I have excuses for my interest in murder, but if I had none I would be just as interested. At one time, I considered designing a board game based on serial murders; that game never really took shape, but this story came out of the idea.

  AND WHEN THEY APPEAR

  Now Christmas is come,

  Let us beat up the drum,

  And call all our neighbors together,

  And when they appear,

  Let us make them such cheer,

  As will keep out the wind and the weather.

  —WASHINGTON IRVING

  C

  oncerned about Sherby, and himself as well, House sent forth both Kite and Mouse.

  If you had seen Mouse, you would have seen nothing. That is to say, you would have told yourself, and quickly convinced yourself, that you had seen nothing, so swift did Mouse scurry over the snow. You were not present, but an owl saw Mouse and swooped down upon her, huge winged and silent as death, for owls are too wise ever to tell themselves that their eyes did not see what their eyes have seen. Its talons closed about Mouse, and a thin blade shot out. The blade was intended for fingers, but it worked well on talons. The owl shrieked, and flapped away upon wings that were silent still, leaving a claw-tipped fraction of itself bleeding on the snow.

  Mouse squeaked (a sound too faint for human ears) as the blade retracted; this was the first time that it had been used since Mouse had been made, and the selflubricating bearings it pivoted on were dry.

  Kite soared higher than the owl ever had, so high that he saw Lonely Mountain whole. He saw the tracks of cars and people in the snow where a bridge crossed the Whitewater, and directed Mouse toward the great, domed doughnut that was the Jefferson house. That was how Mouse found Kieran Jefferson III (principal operating officer of the Beauharnais Group) dead next to his Christmas tree with his brand-new Chapuis express rifle still in his hands. Mouse told House about it right away.

  “I have decided to have a Christmas party,” House told Sherby. “I’ve thought the whole thing over, and decided it is the right thing to do.”

  “I’d like to see my mom and dad,” Sherby told House. Not because it had anything to do with the party, but simply because the thought, filling his mind, had popped from his mouth as soon as he opened it. Sherby was still in his yellow pajamas, having worn them all day.

  “And so you shall,” House assured him, knowing full well that what it meant had nothing to do with what he meant.

  “Not holos.” Sherby could not read House’s mind, but he had known House all his life; if he had been able to read House’s mind, it would have made no difference.

  Nor could House read Sherby’s. (The big steep steps down and down into the basement, the heavy door of the cold storage locker that Sherby could not open without House’s help.)

  “You must write the invitations,” House told Sherby. “I can’t manage that. I think we should invite Santa Claus first of all. That will get things off to a fine start.”

  “I didn’t see Santa Claus last night,” Sherby objected. “I don’t think he’s real.”

  “You fell asleep,” House explained gently, “and since he’s very busy on Christmas Eve, and had dropped in without an invitation, he didn’t awaken you. His busiest day is over now. He always relaxes on Christmas Day. He sleeps until dark, then eats a big dinner. He will be in a relaxed mood, and may very well come.”

  “All right.” Enthusiasm comes easily at Sherby’s age, and often arrives unbidden; Sherby’s showed plainly on his face.

  “You mustn’t expect more presents,” cautioned House, who had no more. “Santa gave away all the toys he had yesterday.”

  “That’s okay,” Sherby said. “I like real things better than toys anyway.”

  Then he went into the Learning Center, where House showed him how to make the letters, sometimes projecting hard ones (like M and Q) right onto the drawboard where Sherby could trace them. Sherby wrote:

  DEAR SANTA

  PEOPLE MUST ASK YOU LOTS AND LOTS OF QUESTIONS MINE IS

  WILL YOU COME TO OUR HOUSE ON LONELY MOUNTAIN FOR A PARTY

  TONIGHT BRING THE ELFS IF YOU WANT TO

  SHERBY

  “That’s a good one,” House told him, “and while you were writing it I had another good idea. Let’s invite all the rest of the Christmas people too. There are a great many of them, live toy soldiers, the Nutcracker, and countless others.”

  Sherby looked down sadly at the light pen, which felt very heavy in his fingers. “I don’t want to write a whole bunch more of these,” he said.

  “You won’t have to,” House promised. “Only one.”

  So Sherby wrote:

  ALL XMAS PEOPLE ESPCIALLY CHILDREN ARE INVITED TOO EVEN THE

  GRINCH

  SHERBY

  He had no sooner laid down the light pen than House’s doorbell rang. Sherby ran to answer it, knowing that House was quite capable of doing it himself—and would too if the visitor were left standing outside for what House (who as a rule did not have a great deal of patience) considered an excessive length of time.

  This visitor was not Santa Claus at all, and did not even look as though he might be much fun. He was an old man with granny glasses and wisps of white hair sticking out from under his tall
beaver hat. But he wore a green greatcoat and a red cravat, and cried, “Hallo!” so cheerfully, and smiled with so many twinkles that Sherby got out of the way at once, saying, “Would you like to come in?”

  “What’s today, my fine fellow?” inquired the old man as he stepped into House, beating the snow from his greatcoat in blizzards. (It melted as it reached the floor, but left no puddles there.)

  “Christmas,” Sherby told him.

  “Not Christmas Eve!” For a moment, the old man appeared quite frightened.

  “No, Christmas Day. The night of it.” House groaned as even the very best houses do on cold nights, and Sherby added tardily, “Sir.”

  “Ebenezer,” said the old man, and offered Sherby his hand in the most friendly fashion possible.

  “No, sir, my name’s Sherby,” Sherby told him. And was about to shut the door (since he was getting cold and House had not yet done it) when he caught sight of a man in foreign garments, wonderfully real and distinct to look at, with an ax in his belt, leading a little black donkey laden with wood up the moonlit drive.

  “It’s Ali Baba,” the old man explained. “Dear old honest Ali Baba! He did come to see me one Christmas, my boy, just like this. Now it’s your turn, and I’ve brought him to you, not only for his entertainment and yours, Sherby, but in order that you may know a great secret.”

  He twinkled more than ever when he said this, and Sherby, who liked secrets more than almost anything else, asked, “What is it?”

  The old man crouched until their eyes were nearly at a level. “You think that I am House,” the old man whispered. “And so I am.”

  “You’re a holo,” Sherby told him.

  “Light projected upon air, Sherby?” The old man leaned closer. “Light’s wondrous stuff, but it cannot speak. Or think.”

  “That’s House,” Sherby acknowledged.

  “And that”—the old man pointed through the doorway and out into the moonlit night—“is Ali Baba. I brought him with me so that you could learn that there is a vagrant magic in Christmas still, after all these years. You have not as long to learn it as I had, perhaps.” He straightened up. “May he bring his donkey in? I know it isn’t regular, but the poor donkey would be uncommonly cold, I’m afraid, standing out all evening in the snow.”