by Vance, Jack
Olivano nodded. “These are my instructions. Do not administer any medicines or tonics whatever. Is this understood?”
“Of course; still, the children are sometimes difficult. When the wind blows at night, Lydia becomes unmanageable and wants to run out on the pampas. During these times a sedative becomes necessary.”
Olivano nodded. “I can understand that you may have a problem. I will prescribe safe sedative but you must not use it except during extreme circumstances’’
“As you like.”
“I will reiterate to make sure there is no misunderstanding. I do not want you dosing the children except with my prior approval. You would be doing them harm and I would surely know I would have no choice but to take them to an environment where they were protected.”
Irena stood, face sagging in dejection and defeat. She started to speak, then held her tongue.
Olivano rose to his feet. “I’ll have a word or two with the children then I will be going.” He nodded to Irena and departed. Irena turned toward Wayness. She spoke in a harsh low voice: I cannot fathom you! Why have you done these things to me?”
Wayness could think of nothing to say and Irena’s distress stirred her own latent guilt at being in the house under false pretenses. At last, lamely she said: “I have intended nothing to harm you.”
“My life is no longer my own!” Irena’s mouth began to work, her words came in wild harsh mutters. “Only one year more. One accursed year! Then it might have been over! I would flee – I would flee now, only there is nothing for me: no solace, no refuge! I am miserable, even before I die, and then who knows? Who knows? It is for this reason that I am afraid.”
“Madame Irena, please calm yourself! I’m sure things are not as bad as you fear!”
“Ha! You know nothing except to smarm and snivel and now I do not know what to do.”
“Why are you worried? Is it about Professor Solomon?”
Irena’s face instantly froze. “I have said nothing, do you hear? Nothing!”
“Of course. Still, if you care to talk, I will listen.”
But Irena had turned on her heel and in three long steps had lunged from the room.
Wayness gloomily went out into the yard, where she took herself in hand. She could not afford to be soft; if deceit and dissimilation were the worst compromises she must make, she could count herself lucky. And after all, Myron and Lydia were to be considered. Irena had mentioned a year: what was to happen in a year? Wayness felt certain that it would not have been to the advantage of the two children.
Dr. Olivano had departed. Madame Clara presently called the children in for their lunch. Wayness sat on the edge of the sandbox and ate the sandwich she had brought from the hotel.
Toward the middle of the afternoon Wayness diffidently asked permission to take the children for a walk. Irena gave a graceless assent and Wayness took her two charges to a confectionery on the square, where Lydia and Myron gravely consumed hot cocoa and fruit tarts mounded high with whipped cream. Wayness wondered what would happen to them when she went away. Dr. Olivano would look to their physical well-being, and as for their emotions – Wayness heaved a sigh. She must harden her heart to such considerations. As for her own affairs, they were not going at all well. She was not a whit closer to Moncurio’s whereabouts now than on the day of her arrival. There had been no opportunity to search the house – though what she might expect to find she had no idea. She was supported only by hope, because she could think of no alternatives to what she was doing. She studied Myron and Lydia, who, so she noticed, were studying her in turn. Wayness saw that they had enjoyed their treats to the last crumb. Next she took them to the town bookshop, where she bought a terrestrial atlas, a big picture book of natural history, a dictionary, and an astronomical atlas.
The three returned to Casa Lucasta. Irena took note of the purchases but made no comment; Wayness would have been surprised had she done so.
The next morning, when Wayness arrived, she found Myron and Lydia already hard at work, building a kite to their own design, using splints of split cane and dark blue film, secured by strips of cohering tape. It was an intricate construction five feet long, comprising an extravagant array of wings, vanes, foils, spoilers, and flared conduits. Wayness found their kite fascinating to look at, but doubted whether it would fly.
The kite was not finished until middle afternoon, when the wind started to blow erratically, in gusts followed by period of dead calm. Myron and Lira nevertheless prepared to fly the kite. Wayness, after indecision, decided not to interfere, though she was sure that the kite would meet disaster.
The two, carrying the kite, crossed Calle Maduro and picked their way out upon the waste of stone and bush which spread away to the south. Wayness followed behind.
Lydia held the string while Myron carried the kite down wind, the film chattering and the various vanes and foils fluttering. Myron turned; the wind caught the kite and contrary to Wayness pessimistic expectations, swept it up – higher, higher, higher, as Lydia paid out the string. She turned a quick smile over her shoulder toward Wayness. Myron watched the ascent with neither surprise nor enthusiasm, but with a gravity which was almost stern. High soared the kite, ruling the wind, each of Myron’s peculiar vanes and surfaces performing faultlessly. Wayness watched, marveling.
The wind waxed and waned, the kite acknowledging the changes with small adjustments, sometimes swooping or dipping somewhat, but otherwise paying no heed to the vagaries of nature. Myron’s kite ruled the skies!
A gust of wind, stronger than any before, struck down from the mountains. The kite string broke and fell slowly to the ground. The kite, liberated, swung majestically away downwind on a mission of its own, and its ultimate descent could not be discerned.
Myron and Lydia stood motionless, looking after the kite for some time, mouths drooping but showing no other emotion. Wayness thought that the kite had been successful. She thought that Lydia and Myron also were satisfied. Myron turned, gave Wayness one of his most unfathomable stares. Wayness said nothing. Lydia dutifully began to roll up the string. As soon as the job was done, all returned to the house, Myron and Lydia pensive rather than crestfallen.
For a time the three sat on the couch, looking through the new books. Wayness was startled to find that Myron was reading the dictionary, scanning page after page, though without any evidence of enjoinment or interest. “That is natural enough, “Wayness told herself. “It is not an exciting book.”
Irena returned from work, even more tired and distraught than usual. She went directly to her room, without a word to anyone. Shortly afterward Wayness took her leave and returned to the hotel.
During the evening Olivano telephoned. He asked: “And how went your day?”
“Well enough. Lydia and Myron built a beautiful kite, and it flew beautifully too. But the string broke and for all I know the kite is still flying somewhere off across the pampas. When I left the house, Lydia was inspecting the picture of a stegosaurus and Myron was studying a chart of the Gaean Reach. He had already read the dictionary. Clara was surly and Irena ignored me.”
Just another day at Casa Lucasta,” said Olivano. “As for me, I received the complete analysis of Irena’s blood today, and it is as I have long suspected: she has been taking some sort of drug which the analyst is unable to name, except to suggest that it is off-world in origin.”
“I’ve wondered about this too,” said Wayness. “In the morning, when she leaves for work, she is quite neat and in command of herself; in the afternoon she can hardly wait to get home and comes running in like a scarecrow.”
Olivano went on in his most toneless voice: “Everything taken with everything, it has become clear to me that Irena is not a suitable custodian for Lydia and Myron. I intend to take them to a better environment as soon possible.”
Wayness slowly adjusted herself to the news, which was bleak. “How soon will that be?”
“The legal processes will take two or three days, dependin
g upon whether old Bernard’s leg is hurting him or not. After that, there is no reason for further delay but it always occurs. It would be better for everyone concerned if you were not on hand at this time.”
“So when must I go?”
“Sooner rather than later I fear.”
“Two days? Three days?”
“Three days at most, or so I would estimate, I will be glad to have the matter settled, since I am starting to suffer from nervous anxieties. The situation at Casa Lucasta does not seem stable.”
* * *
Chapter VII, Part 10
Wayness slumped back into the chair and stared numbly off across the room. Time passed; emotion gradually drained from her mind, leaving only a lump of resentment, directed toward everything and everyone, including Dr. Olivano and his indomitable rectitude.
Wayness finally managed a sour shaky laugh. Dr. Olivano’s responsibilities must be for the children, and her sense of betrayal was irrational. Dr. Olivano, after all, was not a member of the Naturalist Society.
Wayness rose to her feet and went to the window. Her circumstances were bleak; she was no closer to Moncurio than when she had first arrived in Pombareales – perhaps even farther away, since now she had antagonized Irena Portils, the single strand of connection to Moncurio.
Three days, at most, remained to her, and she could think of no constructive course of action other than searching the house. To date, there had been no opportunity; either Madame Clara or Irena was always on hand. Even had she been able to search, Wayness suspected that the effort would have yielded nothing, except for enormous embarrassment if she were caught.
She brooded down across the square, which was almost deserted. Tonight the wind blew strong, fluttering foliage and moaning on its way past the hotel. It was to be hoped that Lydia would not hear voices calling: “Weerooo! Come to us, come!” and decide to run.
Wayness felt too restless for bed. She donned her gray cloak, and leaving the hotel walked quickly along the silent streets to Calle Maduro. Overhead the stars glittered hard and brilliant in the black sky; low in the west hung the Southern Cross.
Tonight the town was quiet: few folk were abroad. The cantinas were almost empty, though the red and yellow lights with which they festooned their fronts shone bravely through the dark. From the Cantina de Las Hermosas came the sound of a voice raised in song - perhaps issuing from the throat of Leon Casinde the pork butcher, thought Wayness.
The winds whipped down Calle Maduro, sighing through the shrub and weeds of the pampas. Wayness stopped to listen, and thought to hear a low mournful tone drifting down from the upper air though she could distinguish no voices. She continued up Calle Maduro. The small houses were pale in the starlight. Casa Lucasta was dark. Everyone had gone to bed, to sleep, or perhaps to lie awake thinking.
Wayness stood in the shadows of the empty house. There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard but the wind.
For ten minutes she waited, the wind flapping her cloak, not at all sure why she was here in the first place, though she would not have been surprised to see a small thin shape emerge from Casa Lucasta and run out across the pampas.
Nothing of the sort occurred. The house remained dark. At last Wayness turned away and slowly returned down Calle Maduro, and back to the Hotel Monopole.
In the morning Wayness awoke with the mood of the night before still with her. The day outside her windows was overcast, and the wind had ceased to blow, so that the sky seemed to exert a curious oppressive weight.
As Wayness consumed her breakfast, her mood changed, and she began to scold herself. “I am Wayness Tamm of Riverview House! I am said to be a very talented person, also intelligent. Therefore, I must start to demonstrate these qualities, or feel foolish when I look into the mirror. So far I have been too diffident; I have been waiting for information to float past on a silver tray! This is poor strategy! I must do something more dramatic! Such as – what?” Wayness considered. “If I could only convince Irena that I meant Moncurio no harm, perhaps she might help me, especially if I offered her money.” Wayness considered further. “I don’t dare bring up the subject – that’s the sad truth; indeed, I’m afraid of Irena.”
Nevertheless, Wayness set out for Casa Lucasta in a mood of determination. She arrived just as Irena was leaving for work. “Good morning, “said Wayness politely. “It almost looks like rain, doesn’t it?”
“Good morning,” said Irena. She glanced around the sky as if she had never noticed it before. “Rain is not usual here.” She gave Wayness a vague smile and went off down Calle Maduro.
Wayness looked after her, shaking her head in perplexity. Irena was a strange one, and no mistake!
Wayness went to the door and touched the chime button. She waited. After an interval nicely calculated to express a maximum of contempt and resentment, the door was opened by Clara, who at once turned and went back to the kitchen, darting a single admonitory glance back over her shoulder. The message is clear, thought Wayness. “I am not one of Clara’s favorites either.”
The children were at their breakfast in the dining room. Wayness greeted them, then took a seat at the end of the table and watched as they finished their porridge. Myron, as usual, was stern and lost in thought, Lydia seemed a trifle peaked.
“Last night the wind blew hard,” said Wayness. “Did you hear it?”
“I heard it,” said Lydia, and added virtuously: “but I did not run.”
“Very wise! Did you hear voices?”
Lydia squirmed in the chair. “Myron says that the voices are not really there.”
“Myron is right, as he always seems to be.”
Lydia returned to her porridge. Wayness took occasion to survey the room. Where could she reasonably hope to find information pertaining to Adrian Moncurio, supposing that it existed? Much would depend upon Irena’s attitude toward such information. If she deemed it of no great value, it might be almost anywhere – even in the drawers of the sideboard yonder, where Irena kept miscellaneous household papers.
Clara went out to the utility porch. Wayness jumped up, ran to the sideboard, opened drawers looked here and there, hoping that the name ‘Moncurio,’ or ‘Professor Solomon’ might catch her eye.
Nothing.
Lydia and Myron watched with neither surprise nor concern. Clara returned to the kitchen; Wayness resumed her seat. Lydia asked: “Why did you do that?”
Wayness said in a half-whisper “I was looking for something I will tell you later, when Clara cannot hear.”
Lydia nodded, finding the remark eminently reasonable. She lowered her own voice: “You should ask Myron. He can find anything, because he can detect where things are.”
A quiver of excitement played along Wayness’ skin. She looked toward Myron; could it possibly be? The idea strained credibility. She asked in a tentative voice: “Myron, can you find things?”
Myron’s nose twitched, as if in deprecation of the purported skill. Lydia said: “Myron knows everything, or almost everything. I think it is time he was starting to talk, so that you could hear what he has to say.”
Myron paid no heed and pushed away what remained of his porridge.
Lydia studied him soberly, then told Wayness: “I think that he will talk when there is something he wants to say.”
“Or when he is helping us find something,” said Wayness.
Movements from the kitchen suggested that Clara’s attention had been attracted by the conversation.”
‘‘Well, then,” said Wayness heavily. “‘What shall we do today? The weather is dreary but it’s not too cold, and we can go out into the yard.” Where, thought Wayness grimly, they could talk without fear of Clara listening.
However, rain had started to fall, so that the three remained in the sitting room, looking at the terrestrial atlas.
Wayness explained the Mercator projection. “So on this flat paper you have the entire surface of Old Earth. These blue areas are oceans and these others are continents. Do ei
ther of you know where we are now?”
Lydia shook her head. “No one has ever told us.”
Myron, after a single glance, put his finger on Patagonia.
“Correct!” said Wayness. She turned pages in the atlas. “All these countries are different, and everyplace has its own special flavor. It is great fun traveling here and there, going from one old city to another, or exploring beautiful wild places, and even on Old Earth the wild places still exist.”
Lydia looked dubiously down at the maps. “What you say must be true, but these maps are confusing, and they give me a funny feeling. I’m not sure whether I like it or not.” Wayness laughed. “I know that feeling very well. It is called ‘wanderlust.’ When I was your age, someone gave me a book of poems from the early times. One of these poems affected me strongly, and haunted me for days, so that I avoided the book. Do you want to hear the poem? It is quite short and it goes like this:
“‘On we rode, the others and I,
Over the mountains blue and by
The Silver River, the Sounding Sea,
And the robber woods of Tartary.’“
“That is pretty,” said Lydia. She looked at Myron, who had cocked his head to the side. “Myron thinks it is very nice. He likes the way the words sound together. Do you know any others?”
“Let me think. I don’t have a good memory for poems, but here is one called the ‘Lake of the Dismal Swamp.’ It is sad and eerie.
“‘They mode the grave too cold and damp
for a soul so brave andtrue.
So she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp
Where all night long by a firefly lamp
She paddles her birch canoe.’“
After a moment Lydia said: “That poem is also very nice.”
Lydia looked toward Myron, then turned to Wayness and with a marveling expression on her face. “Myron has decided to write to you!”