llama shed to collect Willy Waugh, and then gone on to the Manor House. When everyone was seated in the dining room, the only room with enough chairs readily available, John spoke.
“The ‘Reading of the Will’ is a device for fiction. I will not read the will today. I will acquaint you with its terms. I’m doing this at the request of the executor, Mr. Benjamin Dover Soul, whom you all know, I’m sure.” The Villagers sat silent, waiting for John Diss to go on.
“Señora Mandor has provided for each of you in one fashion or another. She has provided that the entire San Danson Village and San Danson Station properties remain in a trust, to be administered by her executor, and two villagers chosen by a vote among you.” John took a swallow of water from the glass set beside him.
“To Notta and DiConti Sharif she assigns the right to live in the Manor House, together with any of their issue. In the event of their passing, the Manor House will revert to their heir or heirs.” Notta and DiConti beamed. Emma smiled with satisfaction.
“To Willy Waugh, in recognition of his longtime devotion to the llamas and their care, he is to be provided a stipend sufficient to feed and medicate the herd, and is to be provided a cottage in the Village.”
Willy looked baffled. “I always sleep out of doors,” he said.
“You’re getting old enough, now, Willy, you should learn to sleep inside,” Rosa said. “You’re not too young for arthritis to start.”
“Oh,” Willy said, and shrank back into his chair to ponder arthritis. Rosa’s opinion carried almost as much weight with him as La Señora’s opinion had.
“Further, Señora Mandor’s will provides Village cottages for Mae Ling, Malcolm Drye, Emma and Haakon, Elke and Rosa, the Swami Rirenda Fendabenda, and Benjamin Soul and Dickon Shayne.” John looked up from his papers. “How you divide the housing among you is for the parties involved to decide.” He sipped at his water again.
“We’ll have to get together,” Ben said, “and work out what’s best for everybody. I think that’s what La Señora would want us to do.”
“We can do that when John’s through, maybe,” the Swami said.
“We’ll see if everybody’s ready,” Ben said. The Swami nodded.
John Diss continued. “To Shubert Wong and Waylon Wong the will leaves right to operate the gas station and emporium for as long as either man shall be willing to work them. They are guaranteed the use of the rooms they currently occupy over the emporium so long as either of them lives.”
“Harry and Olive Pitts are granted the motel business to operate for as long as they are able and willing to work at it. They are granted, for as long as either of them lives, the right to reside in the rooms they currently occupy.” John reviewed the paper in front of him. “There are further provisions, for the investment of the monies attached to the estate, but those are primarily instructions for Ben, as executor. Do any of you have questions?”
The Swami raised his hand. John nodded at him. “If Ben’s managing the investments, who will review what Ben does? Does the will say anything about that?”
“No.”
“Do you know much about investing, Ben?” the Swami asked.
“Not as much as I’ll need to learn, I’m sure. John, isn’t one of the requirements La Señora laid out that I’ll have to make annual reports to the Villagers about where the trust money is and how it’s earning?”
“Yes. Remember, the trust is intended to provide shelter for you Villagers while you’re alive. The property eventually reverts to Notta Sharif and her children.”
“Then Notta should have a say in the investment program.”
“I’ll consult with her on a regular basis,” Ben promised.
“Good,” the Swami said.
“Any further questions?” John asked. When there were none, he turned to Ben. “Ben, it’s your meeting now.” Ben came forward.
“Two things we should take care of today,” he said. “One is choosing the two Villagers to help me administer the trust. How do you want to go about it?” The Villagers looked at each other. Malcolm Drye spoke up.
“I think we should each write two names on a piece of paper and hand it in. If two people get more votes than anybody else, they should be Ben’s helpers.”
“What if it’s three with the same, or almost the same, votes?” Haakon said.
“Narrow the next vote to just those three,” DiConti suggested. Ben looked around the room.
“Does anybody object to doing the choosing this way?” No one did. “Okay, then. I suggest we have John Diss count the votes. He’s as neutral as anybody can be.”
“Sounds good,” Mae Ling said. The others murmured assent.
When the papers had been distributed, and everyone had a chance to write two names on his or her paper, fold it, and hand it to John Diss, John began the count. A few Villagers commented on the weather while they waited for the count. John was thorough; he counted once, and then recounted, to be sure he had done it accurately. When he was through, he leaned over and said so to Ben.
“Okay, John,” Ben said loudly enough to quiet the conversations in the room, “what results did we get?”
“Two people got more votes than anybody else. Congratulations, I think, Elke and Malcolm.” A few Villagers applauded. “Do you want me to read the numbers?”
“Not necessary,” the Swami said. “We’ve applied our communal judgment. Let’s go with it.”
“Right on,” Willy said. “Good luck to both of you.”
“Thanks,” Malcolm and Elke said in unison.
“Now, about distributing the cottages. Shall we try to do that today, or later?”
Emma spoke up. “I think four cottages should keep the tenants they’ve got. Haakon and I are thoroughly satisfied with the place we have. The Swami, Malcolm, and Mae all have been settled in for years. So has Dickon.” She looked back at Dickon who sat against the wall. “Are you and Ben ever going to move in together?” she asked.
Dickon blushed, and Ben grinned.
“We have talked about it,” Dickon said, “but we haven’t decided whether it’s to be his place or mine.”
“Well, I have an idea,” Emma said. “Ben, move in with Dickon. You’re a great neighbor, and so is Butter, but I think Rosa and Elke should take over your cottage. It’s closer to Rosa’s Café, where she goes every day. You two men are in good health, and should get all the exercise you can. Chester’s old place should suit Willy. It’s closer to the llama pens than any of the others.”
“I’m willing, if Dickon will have me,” Ben said, “and Butter.”
“Butter’s more than welcome,” Dickon said, “and I’ll take you to get her,” he teased.
“I’m satisfied with Dr. Field’s old place,” Willy said. “I’ll air it out some more, maybe, before I move in.”
“That settles that, if nobody has any objections,” Ben said. He waited for objections to rise. None did. “Okay, then,” told the Villagers. “Willy has hot water for tea, if you want some. Otherwise, we might as well go home and start packing to move.” The Villagers stood. Some took chairs they knew belonged in other rooms with them. Ben thanked John Diss, and walked him to the funicular. Notta and DiConti stayed behind to talk a little while with Elke about preparations for moving into the Manor House. The llamas gathered in their shed as the winter darkness spread over the mountain and Village.
Prime Claws
When the underwater landslide buried the Codfather, a vacuum in undersea power came into being. It persisted only a short while before petty fiefdoms arose to fill it. Such transient power networks as the Starfish Hegemony and the Sea Urchin Autocracy commanded the connections between pelagic hindbrains for their season, and withered away. Only the Crablord succeeded in rivaling the Codfather’s reach. The Crablord lived on a patch of sand in San Danson Cove.
On a day in March, near the end of the month, the Crablord’s s network thrummed with energy put
forth by the Ur-Mind. Births were happening, not of crabs hatching, for it was a little early in the season for that, but land births of moment and importance. Ashore, on the mountain above the cove, a woman endured labor in a manor house. A llama endured labor in a nearby shed. The Crablord marveled at the stress land mammals suffered to bring forth young. Privately, he deemed the crab fashion of producing young by laying eggs in the sand far preferable to the land creatures’ contorted ways.
Notta Freed Sharif had planned to go to the hospital in Las Tumbas. Sadly, when her babe deemed it time to sally forth into the world, no one with an automobile was in San Danson to give her a ride to the maternity ward. DiConti was on patrol somewhere in South County, Elke was in the City to conduct business, and Ben and Dickon had taken Butter to the veterinarian in Pueblo Rio for her annual vaccinations.
Desperate for help, Notta telephoned Olive Pitts. Olive had experience, from her mission years, with midwifery. Olive came trudging up the hill with Harry in tow. Few travelers meant they could close the motel for several hours without trouble. Harry was good for boiling water, and generally fetching whatever Olive sent him to get. Notta’s labor was not unduly long, even for a first child, and Hyacinth Sharif came into the world in a timely fashion. Olive cut the cord, cleaned the child up, and presented a diapered Hyacinth to her mother. Notta took the infant to her chest, holding it and snuggling it, until it found a nipple and began to nurse.
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