by Gene Wolfe
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For, john Cramer, Ph.D., Captain Wesley Besse,
and everyone else who attended
—or is attending—
Edgar Allan Poe Elementary School
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Introduction
The Tree Is My Hat
SHE WENT TO UGANDA LOOKING FOR ME
The Old Woman Whose Rolling Pin Is the Sun
The Friendship Light
Slow Children at Play
Under Hill
The Monday Man
The Waif
The Legend of Xi Cygnus
The Sailor Who Sailed After the Sun
How the Bishop Sailed to Inniskeen
Houston, 1943
A Fish Story
Wolfer
The Eleventh City
The Night Chough
The Wrapper
A Traveler in Desert Lands
The Walking Sticks
Queen
Pocketsful of Diamonds
Copperhead
The Lost Pilgrim
Copyright Acknowledgments
BY GENE WOLFE FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
PRAISE FOR INNOCENTS ABOARD
About the Author
Copyright Page
Introduction
You will find fantasy and horror stories in the book that follows, and nothing else. Okay, magic realism, maybe, depending on how you define it. But no science fiction and no mainstream literary stories. Not that I have anything against stories of those kinds, though you may.
Oh, ghost stories. If you want to count those as a separate category, well, “The Walking Sticks” is certainly a ghost story, and ghosts make cameo appearances in some of the others. To tell you the truth, I believe in ghosts (having had Certain Experiences). And as a result often find them creeping into stories.
Let’s see … Perhaps I should tell you that “The Tree Is My Hat” was done as a radio play at the World Horror Convention; Neil Gaiman played Reverend Robbins, and I’m proud of that.
“The Old Woman Whose Rolling Pin Is the Sun” is a bedtime story for my granddaughter Becca; perhaps she’ll read it here for the first time ever.
Well, I could comment in one way or another on all of them; but I don’t want to, and you wouldn’t read it if I did. So just a few …
“The Friendship Light” is one of those stories the author likes better than anyone else. Like “The Friendship Light,” “Slow Children at Play” was based in part on an actual light—a mysterious light, in this case—which I saw once and have never seen again. It’s also based on a traffic sign about half a block north of this house.
“Under Hill” was very pleasant to write because I fell for Princess Apple Blossom. What a great little person! Perhaps you’ll like her, too.
“The Monday Man” refers, of course, to those sad and frightening men who steal women’s underwear. When I was growing up no one had clothes dryers, and Monday men were a perennial problem for my poor mother.
“The Waif” has been praised by Gordon Van Gelder. That should be enough for you.
“The Legend of Xi Cygnus” is a dream story. Once or twice I have had a dream that sparks a story; it reveals itself as a story-dream by demanding to be written down.
“The Sailor Who Sailed After the Sun” is a favorite story of Joan Gordon’s. Joan is an academic who knows a lot about this kind of story and was disappointed that it wasn’t in my previous collection Strange Travelers. So here it is.
There really are islands like the one in “How the Bishop Sailed to Inniskeen” off the coast of Ireland, islands with ruined monasteries on them. It’s hard for us to understand how happy monks are, for the most part. Yet they are, and pity us, and pray for us.
“Houston, 1943” is sort of autobiographical. I grew up in Houston, with a very nice mama and a very nice daddy and a fat spaniel named Boots. In 1943, I was twelve; and that’s my family, my bedroom, and so forth. There were bugs and tarantulas, alligators, poisonous snakes, Nazi submarines, and housemaids who practiced voodoo. All that is real.
So are various other things in the rest of the stories. I sincerely hope you’ll read and enjoy them all, especially the made-up parts.
—Gene Wolfe
The Tree Is My Hat
30 Jan. I saw a strange stranger on the beach this morning. I had been swimming in the little bay between here and the village; that may have had something to do with it, although I did not feel tired. Dived down and thought I saw a shark coming around the big staghorn coral. Got out fast. The whole swim cannot have been more than ten minutes. Ran out of the water and started walking.
There it is. I have begun this journal at last. (Thought I never would.) So let us return to all the things I ought to have put in and did not. I bought this the day after I came back from Africa.
No, the day I got out of the hospital—I remember now. I was wandering around, wondering when I would have another attack, and went into a little shop on Forty-second Street. There was a nice-looking woman in there, one of those good-looking black women, and I thought it might be nice to talk to her, so I had to buy something. I said, “I just got back from Africa.”
She: “Really. How was it?” Me: “Hot.”
Anyway, I came out with this notebook and told myself I had not wasted my money because I would keep a journal, writing down my attacks, what I had been doing and eating, as instructed; but all I could think of was how she looked when she turned to go to the back of the shop. Her legs and how she held her head. Her hips.
After that I planned to write down everything I remember from Africa, and what we said if Mary returned my calls. Then it was going to be about this assignment.
31 Jan. Setting up my new Mac. Who would think this place would have phones? But there are wires to Kololahi, and a dish. I can chat with people all over the world, for which the agency pays. (Talk about soft!) Nothing like this in Africa. Just the radio, and good luck with that.
I was full of enthusiasm. “A remote Pacific island chain.” Wait …
P.D.: “Baden, we’re going to send you to the Takanga Group.”
No doubt I looked blank.
“It’s a remote Pacific island chain.” She cleared her throat and seemed to have swallowed a bone. “It’s not going to be like Africa, Bad. You’ll be on your own out there.”
Me: “I thought you were going to fire me.”
P.D.: “No, no! We wouldn’t do that.”
“Permanent sick leave.”
“No, no, no! But, Bad.” She leaned across her desk and for a minute I was afraid she was going to squeeze my hand. “This will be rough. I’m not going to try to fool you.”
Hah!
Cut to the chase. This is nothing. This is a bungalow with rotten boards in the floors that has been here since before the British pulled out, a mile from the village and less than half that from the beach, close enough that the Pacific-smell is in all the rooms. The people are fat and happy, and my guess is not more than half are dumb. (Try and match that around Chicago.) Once or twice a year one gets yaws or some such, and Rev. Robbins gives him arsenic. Which cures it. Pooe
y!
There are fish in the ocean, plenty of them. Wild fruit in the jungle, and they know which you can eat. They plant yams and breadfruit, and if they need money or just want something, they dive for pearls and trade them when Jack’s boat comes. Or do a big holiday boat trip to Kololahi.
There are coconuts, too, which I forgot. They know how to open them. Or perhaps I am just not strong enough yet. (I look in the mirror, and ugh.) I used to weigh two hundred pounds.
“You skinny,” the king says. “Ha, ha, ha!” He is really a good guy, I think. He has a primitive sense of humor, but there are worse things. He can take a jungle chopper (we said upanga but they say heletay) and open a coconut like a pack of gum. I have coconuts and a heletay but I might as well try to open them with a spoon.
1 Feb. Nothing to report except a couple of wonderful swims. I did not swim at all for the first couple of weeks. There are sharks. I know they are really out there because I have seen them once or twice. According to what I was told, there are saltwater crocs, too, up to fourteen feet long. I have never seen any of those and am skeptical, although I know they have them in Queensland. Every so often you hear about somebody who was killed by a shark, but that does not stop the people from swimming all the time, and I do not see why it should stop me. Good luck so far.
2 Feb. Saturday. I was supposed to write about the dwarf I saw on the beach that time, but I never got the nerve. Sometimes I used to see things in the hospital. Afraid it may be coming back. I decided to take a walk on the beach. All right, did I get sunstroke?
Pooey.
He was just a little man, shorter even than Mary’s father. He was too small for any adult in the village. He was certainly not a child, and was too pale to have been one of the islanders at all.
He cannot have been here long; he was whiter than I am.
Rev. Robbins will know—ask tomorrow.
3 Feb. Hot and getting hotter. Jan. is the hottest month here, according to Rob Robbins. Well, I got here the first week in Jan. and it has never been this hot.
Got up early while it was still cool. Went down the beach to the village. (Stopped to have a look at the rocks where the dwarf disappeared.) Waited around for the service to begin but could not talk to Rob, he was rehearsing the choir—“Nearer My God to Thee.”
Half the village came, and the service went on for almost two hours. When it was over I was able to get Rob alone. I said if he would drive us into Kololahi I would buy our Sunday dinner. (He has a jeep.) He was nice, but no—too far and the bad roads. I told him I had personal troubles I wanted his advice on, and he said, “Why don’t we go to your place, Baden, and have a talk? I’d invite you for lemonade, but they’d be after me every minute.”
So we walked back. It was hotter than hell, and this time I tried not to look. I got cold Cokes out of my rusty little fridge, and we sat on the porch (Rob calls it the veranda) and fanned ourselves. He knew I felt bad about not being able to do anything for these people, and urged patience. My chance would come.
I said, “I’ve given up on that, Reverend.”
(That was when he told me to call him Rob. His first name is Mervyn.) “Never give up, Baden. Never.” He looked so serious I almost laughed.
“All right, I’ll keep my eyes open, and maybe someday the Agency will send me someplace where I’m needed.”
“Back to Uganda?”
I explained that the A.O.A.A. almost never sends anyone to the same area twice. “That wasn’t really what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s my personal life. Well, really two things, but that’s one of them. I’d like to get back together with my ex-wife. You’re going to advise me to forget it, because I’m here and she’s in Chicago; but I can send e-mail, and I’d like to put the bitterness behind us.”
“Were there children? Sorry, Baden. I didn’t intend it to hurt.”
I explained how Mary had wanted them and I had not, and he gave me some advice. I have not e-mailed yet, but I will tonight after I write it out here.
“You’re afraid that you were hallucinating. Did you feel feverish?” He got out his thermometer and took my temperature, which was nearly normal. “Let’s look at it logically, Baden. This island is a hundred miles long and about thirty miles at the widest point. There are eight villages I know of. The population of Kololahi is over twelve hundred.”
I said I understood all that.
“Twice a week, the plane from Cairns brings new tourists.”
“Who almost never go five miles from Kololahi.”
“Almost never, Baden. Not never. You say it wasn’t one of the villagers. All right, I accept that. Was it me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it was someone from outside the village, someone from another village, from Kololahi, or a tourist. Why shake your head?”
I told him.
“I doubt there’s a leprosarium nearer than the Marshalls. Anyway, I don’t know of one closer. Unless you saw something else, some other sign of the disease, I doubt that this little man you saw had leprosy. It’s a lot more likely that you saw a tourist with pasty white skin greased with sun blocker. As for his disappearing, the explanation seems pretty obvious. He dived off the rocks into the bay.”
“There wasn’t anybody there. I looked.”
“There wasn’t anybody there you saw, you mean. He would have been up to his neck in water, and the sun was glaring on the water, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“It must have been. The weather’s been clear.” Rob drained his Coke and pushed it away. “As for his not leaving footprints, stop playing Sherlock Holmes. That’s harsh, I realize, but I say it for your own good. Footprints in soft sand are shapeless indentations at best.”
“I could see mine.”
“You knew where to look. Did you try to backtrack yourself? I thought not. May I ask a few questions? When you saw him, did you think he was real?”
“Yes, absolutely. Would you like another one? Or something to eat?”
“No, thanks. When was the last time you had an attack?”
“A bad one? About six weeks.”
“How about a not-bad one?”
“Last night, but it didn’t amount to much. Two hours of chills, and it went away.”
“That must have been a relief. No, I see it wasn’t. Baden, the next time you have an attack, severe or not, I want you to come and see me. Understand?”
I promised.
This is Bad. I still love you. That’s all I have to say, but I want to say it. I was wrong, and I know it. I hope you’ve forgiven me. And sign off.
4 Feb. Saw him again last night, and he has pointed teeth. I was shaking under the netting, and he looked through the window and smiled. Told Rob, and said I read somewhere that cannibals used to file their teeth. I know these people were cannibals three or four generations back, and I asked if they had done it. He thinks not but will ask the king.
I have been very ill, Mary, but I feel better now. It is evening here, and I am going to bed. I love you. Good night. I love you. Sign off.
5 Feb. Two men with spears came to take me to the king. I asked if I was under arrest, and they laughed. No ha, ha, ha from His Majesty this time, though. He was in the big house, but he came out and we went some distance among hardwoods the size of office buildings smothered in flowering vines, stopping in a circle of stones: the king, the men with spears, and an old man with a drum. The men with spears built a fire, and the drum made soft sounds like waves while the king made a speech or recited a poem, mocked all the while by invisible birds with eerie voices.
When the king was finished, he hung this piece of carved bone around my neck. While we were walking back to the village, he put his arm around me, which surprised me more than anything. He is bigger than a tackle in the NFL, and must weigh four hundred pounds. It felt like I was carrying a calf.
Horrible, horrible dreams! Swimming in boiling blood. Too scared to sleep anymore. Logged on and tried to find something on dr
eams and what they mean. Stumbled onto a witch in L.A.—her home page, then the lady herself. (I’ll get you and your little dog, too!) Actually, she seemed nice.
Got out the carved bone thing the king gave me. Old, and probably ought to be in a museum, but I suppose I had better wear it as long as I stay here, at least when I go out. Suppose I were to offend him? He might sit on me! Seems to be a fish with pictures scratched into both sides. More fish, man in a hat, etc. Cord through the eye. Wish I had a magnifying glass.
6 Feb. Still haven’t gone back to bed, but my watch says Wednesday. Wrote a long e-mail, typing it in as it came to me. Told her where I am and what I’m doing, and begged her to respond. After that I went outside and swam naked in the moonlit sea. Tomorrow I want to look for the place where the king hung this fish charm on me. Back to bed.
Morning, and beautiful. Why has it taken me so long to see what a beautiful place this is? (Maybe my heart just got back from Africa.) Palms swaying forever in the trade winds, and people like heroic bronze statues. How small, how stunted and pale we have to look to them!
Took a real swim to get the screaming out of my ears. Will I laugh in a year when I see that I said my midnight swim made me understand these people better? Maybe I will. But it did. They have been swimming in the moon like that for hundreds of years.
E-mail! God bless e-mail and whoever invented it! Just checked mine and found I had a message. Tried to guess who it might be. I wanted Mary, and was about certain it would be from the witch, from Annys. Read the name and it was Julius R. Christmas. Pops! Mary’s Pops! Got up and ran around the room, so excited I could not read it. Now I have printed it out, and I am going to copy it here.