by Gene Wolfe
Tuck dodged behind the chair. “I think you need to consider what you’re doing. Will you listen to reason? Just for a minute?”
“I will not only listen to it,” Blaan told him, “I will voice it. The princess has wed a vagrant, a decision she must deeply regret. I will free her from her miscegenation. In gratitude, she will accept me and obey me as a good wife should. Or suffer the consequences.”
The last word was nearly drowned in the pounding footfalls of the guards, a score of big men with helmets and spears.
“Wait!” Estar raised both her hands. “I am your Princess Plenipotentiary, the Regent of our King.”
Tuck kept his eyes on Blaan. “Your lord’s following a suicidal policy,” Tuck said.
Estar’s voice rose above the hubbub. “Hear the Prince Consort!”
“True loyalty lies in saving him from it.”
Blaan lifted his sword for an overhand cut, edging to his right.
“That will preserve your own lives too. Obey him now and you’ll die as traitors, and quickly.”
“Die!”
Tuck got the chair up in time to block the swift sword cut, though the edge bit deep into its back. He grabbed one end of the wide sword guard, and Blaan jerked to free it.
Estar spoke again. “Do none of you wish this barony? Not one?”
As if by magic, the blade of a spear emerged from Blaan’s chest. His blood followed it, his eyes glazed, and he fell.
With all the poise she might have exhibited at her coronation, Estar approached the guardsman while her maids scurried behind her, trying to snatch up the cloth-of-gold train they had let fall. “Congratulations, my lord.” She smiled. “A good cast!”
The king lay in bed staring at the embroidered canopy eight feet above his snowy head. “He will speak at times,” Estar whispered. “Let us hope this will be one.” More loudly she said, “This is my husband, Father. The ceremony will be at sunset—we’re hoping that will cheer the city as well as giving our warriors a new leader.”
There was no response.
“Already, he wears the seal, Father. Don’t you see it?” She touched the heavy gold seal suspended from Tuck’s neck. “The seal you wore for so many years?”
There was nothing to indicate that the old man in the huge bed had heard her.
“He is wise, and certainly much too wise not to listen to the advice of a man much older than he who has devoted his life to statecraft. A few words from you, now, might help him shape a better path for our whole nation.”
“No,” the old king said distinctly. “Go, Estar. Leave me.”
“Better,” Tuck muttered to her.
“Is it really?” She scarcely breathed the words. “I would have said worse.”
“It’s better,” Tuck’s tone was conversational, “because it doesn’t point to Alzheimer’s, which is what I was afraid of. I can’t treat that with what we’ve got here. This is senile depression, I would say, and I may be able to do something.”
“Really?”
“Really. Will you trust me alone with him for half an hour or so? I won’t hurt him, I promise, or demean him in any way. But this will be tricky and may not work.”
When she had kissed him lightly and gone out, he took off the seal and pulled a chair up to the bed. Seated, he held the seal by its chain, letting it swing gently. “I wanted to give you a better look at this, Your Majesty. Do you see it? Look carefully, please. I know you wore it for years, but you were very busy during all those years. Did you notice how beautiful it is? See how it catches the light as it swings back and forth. See how it turns as it swings. It’s bright gold, pure gold, and my valet polishes it every time I change clothes.”
There was no response.
“I’m going to try something to take away the pain, or make it lighter if I can’t take it away entirely. The thing I’m going to do here this warm afternoon is called hypnotherapy. Hypnos is one of the names of sleep. Did you know that? That’s why it’s called hypnotherapy. It’s sleep therapy, sleep healing. You’re old now. You can no longer grasp a sword, and you hate that. It hurts you inside, I know. You can no longer walk like you used to, and that hurts too. I understand. But there’s so much pain, so much pain like that. I’m sure you would like to get away from it for a while, even if it was only a little while. Haven’t you noticed that it no longer hurts when you sleep? It doesn’t. You’re warm and comfortable then, and those things no longer matter, do they? It’s so much better to sleep, and not hurt.
“To sleep and wake up better and stronger with no pain. Are you still watching the seal? That’s fine, but I can see your eyelids are getting heavy. Close them if you want to. Rest your eyes. Get away from the pain while the seal swings back and forth.”
When Tuck left the king’s bedchamber, the king was holding his arm. He did not grip it tightly, and with its slight help walked almost as well as Tuck himself. The crimson velvet retiring robe he wore was trimmed with ermine and positively regal. He greeted half a dozen courtiers by name, while they bowed almost to the rich carpet of the corridor, or gaped openmouthed.
“I am feeling better,” he told Estar when they found her in the music room of the suite she now shared with Tuck. “It has been a great help to have you and this prince, a loving couple I can trust with everything, as my regents. I hope that you will consent to continue in your service to our nation.”
“We will, Your Majesty,” Tuck said.
Still too astonished to speak, Estar nodded agreement.
Later, in a curtained room, Tuck sat before the crystal watching the golden seal he had hung above it swing. “Wake,” he murmured. “Wake up. This is a dream, a good dream, but only a dream. Awake. Awake. Awake …”
It took much longer than that. But a moment came when he realized he was no longer watching the seal—that he was sitting on a small, hard stool with his eyes shut.
He opened them and saw the stacks of the prison library. A cart showed that he had been reshelving books. He rose from the gray metal stool and went back to work.
That night a whistle shrilled in Cell Block Seven. “Lockdown!” a guard shouted. Two or three voices echoed him derisively: Lockdown. Lockdown. Thirty seconds later, every door in the block that was not closed already slammed shut and every bolt in every door shot home.
“Wish it didn’t make such a racket,” the other man in the cell said, and sat up.
“We are the Night People.” Tuck gripped the bars and looked out, wondering vaguely what the other man’s name was, and whether he would ever recall it.
“What you mean by that, Doc?”
He turned and looked at the other man—at Clark. “You have to kill the Night People or lock them up. If you don’t they will murder and rape and burn. It’s the same everywhere, ‘in spite of differences of soil and climate, of languages and manners, of laws and customs.’ We are the Night People, and they are safe from us now.”
“You’re quotin’ again, ain’t you?”
Tuck nodded. “Wordsworth.”
“My granny used to talk about them,” Clark said, “them dime stores.”
Murder, rape, and burn. And hide evidence.
There were patients next day, both alcoholics. When he had finished with them, he went to the library; secreted once more in the stacks, he tried by every method he knew to return to his dream.
Next morning he was in the library again. He ate lunch and endeavored to treat a man who fantasized—only fantasized, he insisted—about doing horrible things to women with long dark hair.
The next day there were no psychiatric patients and he filled in at the hospital, looking at sore throats and sprained ankles. In that fashion day followed day. And evening after evening he read while Clark watched TV Had a book guided him to the dream? He hoped one had and searched his mind in spare moments, for if such a book existed it might be found again; found, it might guide him back. Might guide him home.
Once Clark asked him what he would do when he got out, and he
said, “Lead those who’ll follow me to blunt the next incursion.” Clark asked him no more questions after that.
So one year passed, and another, until at last a patient explained that his sleep was haunted by a plaintive girl. “She’s real skinny, Doc, and looks real poor. She keeps tellin’ me and tellin’ how I promised something, only I never done it.”
Tuck nodded. “Something in your unconscious mind is trying to enter your consciousness. Have you any idea what it might be?”
The patient nodded. “Yeah, I do. That’s why I acted crazy until they let me in to see you.” He held out a scrap of wood. “A guy asked me to give you this, a long time ago. I promised I would, only I never did. You can just pitch it out if you want to.”
Tuck examined it. It was a simple cylinder with a clumsily cut hole down its axis.
“Thing is, he got your old bench when they moved you up here out of the wood shop, and he found it in a drawer. He thought it might be a piece of somethin’ you’d been workin’ on, and you might like to have it.”
“It’s a wooden grip for a sword,” Tuck told him.
When the patient had gone, he rubbed it between his palms, pressed it to his cheek, shut his eyes, and (feeling not at all foolish) kissed it.
There were hands upon his shoulders; he knew at once whose hands they were. “The Sun People have need of you,” Nerys said, and somewhere a tiger roared.
He rose, wrapped in crystalline mist, and took three steps.
Escaped the crystal. He paused, brushing his lips with the end of the quill. Half the city has burned. I have rallied the survivors. We must free Estar, and because we must, we shall. The Armies of Night are scattered, expecting no concerted attack. With luck and guts we’ll teach them a lesson that will last a long, long time.
The Dog of the Drops
Not long ago, my duties took me to the lands beyond the bombed cities. They are a different kind of people there, poor, lonely, loquacious, and insular. There are no cook-shops in their wretched villages, and no accommodations for travelers. Someone told me to apply at a farm in the next valley. I did, and was welcomed by a beautiful, very quiet young woman and five noisy boys who called her “Ma.”
I had scarcely left her door the next morning when I was stopped by an elderly man; he was stooped and weatherworn, but his handclasp proved he was still strong. I have no great ear for dialect, but I will attempt to give his tale as he did, while omitting my own questions and promptings.
‘E know wat a doog be, sar? Well, sar, I knowt it ter, er thought I done. My pa, he showt me a picture, do’e see, an’’twar smallish. Had years like ter sma’ rugs, it did, er else yearmuffs on ter keep its biddy years cozied. On’y somebody’d had ter put ‘em on it, do’e see, an’ somebody’d had ter make’em fer it ter. Fer it couldn’t do sich for itself, nae havin’ nae hands. Pa tolt me.’Em doogs cud talk, sar, like ter a man er ter a lady dependin’. Do sma’ errants fer ‘em wat owned’em, they wud. Go ter th’ neebors an’ tell wat’e tolt it ter say. Flush coneys, ter, an’ fetch hum wat’e shot wat got inter th’ bush, sar. Watch th’ hoose when’e was gun, if’e kin swaller sich.
On‘y th’ Life Man wat were, he didna fancy ‘em, fer they didna care fer his taxers, sar, on’y fer ‘em wat fed’em, an’ if we’s ail so’twud be better fer us all, do’e see. So he kilt’em. An’ said they brought th’ sickness, wich nobody’d took no note o’ afore, sar, an’ hung’em wat kept’em. So they’s all gun, sar. Dead as cats, sar, is wat Pa tolt me.
On’y there’s a neebor name o’ Pet, do’e see. An’ he went inter th’ drops, sar, wat th’ awld folks calt th’ barbs, sar, ware folk used ter live’round th’ fallinwalls. We calls’em drops ‘cause there’s holes ever’where, do’e see, most wi’ water in’em an’ dint go nowheres nohow. On’y a man drops inter ‘em, do’e see, an’’e don’t look sharp. Holes an’ holes. They et dirt in’em times, it do seem, fer there’s none’round wear they dug.
Pet were out huntin’ do’e see, an’ a good place fer it.
Well, sar, he shot a wolf, sar, an’ follered it, wantin’ th’ hide fer his miz. On’y he never caught oop. Dark coom, an’ him way inter th’ drops, sar, an’ nae wolf.
Oh, he knowed he hit it, sar. A blud trail, do’e see, an’ he’d seen it ramp wen his bullet hit. On’y he lost th’ trail an’ thrashed aboot tryin’ ter find it, do’e see, an’ dark coom. They’s bad places, th’ drops is, wear them awld folk was in th’ awld time’fore Bigkill,’round th’ glass an’ fallinwalls. On’y Pet were a brave’un an’ he made ter spend th’ night there, like.
He got a fire goin’ an’ cookt an’ et th’ way’e do, sar. He laid down, an’ ‘fore he got ter sleep he hert a biddy gal, like, talkin’ ter him. He sat up spry, he said, an’ well I believt him. He had ter think it were a ghast, do’e see. Wanted grub, she done, an’ said her ma were dead an’ none left ter feed her. Pet, he says, “You coom set by th’ fire.” On’y she never would, sar. Said he weren’t ter see her. Not never. Said ter throw her food an’ lay doon, an’ she’d fetch it. Wich she done, sar, an’ he hert her eatin’ wen he lay.
“Wat’e goin’ ter do wen I’m awa’?” says Pet. “An’’e wi’ none ter see ter’e?”
“Die, sar,” says she.
“I’ll coom back tomorrer,” says Pet, an’ he thought, sar, he’d learn her ter trust him an’ take her home an’ find a gal ter do fer her, do’e see, for he’d th’ five boys o’ his ain at hum an’ dint want nae mair kits.
Well, sar, it went on sae fer a yar an’ soom. Pet, he wud coom an’ stay if it were fine wetter, an’ leave a barley caike’er wat he had an’ go an’ it were none. On‘y she growed oop that yar, sar. Dinna soond but a bitty kit wen she coom ter Pet’s fire, sar, on’y ready fer a rin’ wen th’ yar coom’round agin.
Gud thin’ it were, fer he passed. In th’ medder, do’e see, an’ bull gored him. On’y wen his miz, wat were sae kind ter’e, coom lookin’ fer him th’ bull’s gun an’ somethin’ standin’ o’er Pet wat wudnae let her coom near. She went fer me, sar, an’ ter mair wat had been his neebors. We coom, an’’twere dark er near dark, an’ there were somethin’ big an’ black wat watcht o’er him. I knowt. I made ‘em wi’ me down th’ guns. “He’s gone,” I says, “an’ we got ter put him under right, do’e see. I know’e’d nae harm him, Doog.” An’ she went, sar, like ter a shadder.
We fetcht him hoom, an’ laid him in th’ kitchen on th’ big table, sar, an’ it’s wen we seen it were th’ bull. He were gored an’ tossed, sar, an’ neck broke.
’Tis been hard, sar, fer her, feedin’ five kits. On’y coom dark, there mawt be a fawn er coney on th’ step fer’em, sar. Or nae. There’s nae tellin’.
’E seen Pet’s miz, sar. On’y a yonker herself, sar, fer it was Pet’s first wat carryt his boys. A gud woman, sar, an’ a kinder, neater gal never I seen, an’ there’s Sut, sar, wat tuk ter her like wat’e done.
Him, sar? She lykt him well enough till he thumpt her, sar, an’ she had ter run ter me. Dinna’e fret ‘bout Sut, sar, fer a wolf kilt him the night after, sar. Neck tore, do’e see, and a leg took ter eat or fer th’ kits. A wolf’s wat they say, sar, an’ dinna ast me wat’ud tell’em different.
’E take care, do’e see, sar?’E treat her gud, an’ Pet’s kits, ter, sar. Er else gae hum.
He turned at the last word, fearful perhaps that he had offended me. I stood and watched him go until his broad, bent shoulder and old gray coat vanished in the furze and the mist. Then I turned to look back at the lonely, noisy cottage I had left, to which I hope soon to return.
And I wondered where she lay, she who watched it with me.
Mute
Jill was not certain it was a bus at all, although it was shaped like a bus and of a bus-like color. To begin with (she said to herself ) Jimmy and I are the only people. If it’s a school bus, why aren’t there other kids? And if it’s a pay-when-you-get-on bus, why doesn’t anybody get on? Besides there was a sign that said Bus STOP, and it
didn’t.
The road was narrow, cracked and broken; the bus negotiated it slowly. Trees closed above it to shut out the sun, relented for a moment or two, then closed again.
As it seemed, forever.
There were no cars on the road, no trucks or SUVs, and no other buses. They passed a rusty sign with a picture of a girl on a horse, but there were no girls and no horses. A deer with wide, innocent eyes stood beside a sign showing a leaping buck and watched their bus (if it really was a bus) rumble past. It reminded Jill of a picture in a book: a little girl with long blond hair with her arm around the neck of just such a deer. That girl was always meeting bad animals and horrible, ugly people; and it seemed to Jill that the artist had been nice to give her this respite. Jill looked at the other pictures with horrified fascination, then turned to this one with a sense of relief. There were bad things, but there were good things too.
“Do you remember the knight falling off his horse?” she whispered to her brother.
“You never saw a knight, Jelly. Me neither.”
“In my book. Most of the people that girl met were awful, but she liked the knight and he liked—”
The driver’s voice cut through hers. “Right over yonder’s where your ma’s buried.” He pointed, coughing.
Jill tried to see it, and saw only trees.
After that she tried to remember Mother. No clear image would come, no tone of voice or remembered words. There had been a mother. Their mother. Her mother. She had loved her mother, and Mother had loved her. She would hold on to that, she promised herself. They could not bury that.
Trees gave way to a stone wall pierced by a wide gate of twisted bars, a gate flanked by stone pillars on which stone lions crouched and glared. An iron sign on the iron bars read POPLAR HILL.
Gate, sign, pillars, and lions were gone almost before she could draw breath. The stone wall ran on and on, with trees in front of it and more trees behind it. Alders in front, she decided, and maples and birches in back. No poplars.