Ecce and Old Earth (42 page)

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 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 either 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 and
true.

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!"

Siting up straight Myron took pencil and paper. Using neat quick strokes ne printed a message. “The poem is beautiful, and the words are beautiful. Say it again.”

Wayness smilingly shook her head. “It would not sound so well the second time."

Myron gave her so mournful a look that Wayness relented. “Very well. I'll do it just this once.” She repeated the poem.

Myron listened attentively, then wrote: “I like that poem. The words fit together well. I shall write a poem when I have time."

“I hope you will show it to me,” said Wayness. ''Or even read it aloud.”

Myron pursed his lips, not yet ready to go so far.

Lydia asked: “Do you know any other poems?"

Wayness reflected. “There is a poem I learned when I was very young and a fine poem is too. I think that you will like it.” She looked from face to face; both were alert and expectant. "It goes like this:

'Pussycat Mew jumped over a coal

And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.

Poor Pussycat's weeping, she’ll have no more milk

Until her best petticoat's mended with silk.’ “

Lydia was pleased with the poem. “Though, of course, it is very sad.”

“Possibly,” said Wayness. “But I suspect that the pussycat went quickly to work and mended her skirt, so that she was once again served her milk. That is what I would have done, at any rate.”

“And I, as well. Do you know any more poems?"

“Not at the moment. Perhaps you should try to write a poem and Myron also."

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “I will write a poem about the wind."

“That is a good idea. Myron, what about you?”

Myron wrote: “I must decide what to write about. The poem will sound like the ‘
Lake of the Dismal Swamp
,’ because that seems a good way to write poems.”

“Both of your ideas sound interesting,” said Wayness. She turned her head to listen. Clara had once again gone out to the utility porch. Wayness looked around the sitting room. There was no desk or cabinet in which Irena would have kept private papers.

Lydia asked again: “What are you looking for?”

“A paper with the address of a man named ‘Adrian Moncurio’. Either that, or a paper with the address of 'Professor Solomon’ who is the same man.”

Clara came back into the kitchen. She looked through the doorway, making a swift appraisal of what might be occurring. She turned away. Neither Myron nor Lydia had anything to say.

Myron snatched up his pencil and wrote. “There is not a paper like that in the house."

Wayness leaned back and stared toward the ceiling.

The day passed. Outside the rain fell steadily: large heavy drops which did little more than bring out the scent of damp concrete and damp soil. Irena came home and Wayness took her leave. In a dispirited mood she walked through the rain to the hotel.

On the following day the overcast exerted a dank pressure upon the landscape. Wayness arrived at Casa Lucasta to find that Irena had not gone to work. She gave no explanation, but evidently did not feel well and, after a muttered colloquy with Clara, went up to her room. Half an hour later Clara draped a black shawl over her head, donned her overcoat, took up her shopping bag and trudged from the house.

A light rain was now falling, constraining Wayness and the two children to the sitting room.

Clara was gone. Wayness listened, but there was no sound from upstairs. She spoke in a low voice: "I will tell you something about myself. I have kept it secret from everyone. Since I want your help, I will tell you this secret.”

“I was born on a world which is very wild. No one lives there except many different kinds of animals and a few people who guard the world. But there are other people who want to kill most of the animals, and build big cities and destroy the beauty of this world."

Myron wrote: “They are fools. “

“I think so too,” said Wayness. "In fact, some of them are wicked people, and have even tried to kill me."

Lydia looked at Wayness large-eyed. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know. But I am trying my best to stop them, to save my beautiful world. There is a man who can help me. I think you know him. His name – "Wayness stopped speaking. She raised her head and listened. What had she heard? Whatever the sound had been, it was not repeated. She lowered her voice still further. "His name is Adrian Moncurio.” She spoke in a low voice, almost breathless with urgency. Again she tilted her head to listen. Then: "Moncurio called himself Professor Solomon; perhaps you know him under this name. He came to Pombareales and got into trouble. He said he had found a treasure of gold doubloons in a secret cave. He was not telling the truth. The cave was fictitious, and the gold doubloons were mostly lead. He sold as many as he could, then when his trick was discovered, he fled from Earth, and now I must find him. Do either of you know where he is?”

The two had listened in an uneasy silence. Lydia said: “Myron knows, of course. Myron knows everything.''

Wayness looked at Myron and started to speak, but was Interrupted. Into the room came Irena, her hair in disorder, her skin the color of old mustard. She cried hoarsely: “What are you talking about? I can hear this sly murmuring and it is something I cannot tolerate! What is it then!”

Wayness stuttered and groped for words. Myron spoke in a clear easy voice: “I have composed a poem. Do you want to hear it?”

Irena stared, her jaw dropping to draw the lines of her haggard face even deeper. "You are talking!"

“I will speak my poem.”

Irena started to speak in a peculiar strangled voice.

Lydia called out sharply: “Listen to Myron He has decided to speak!"

“This is the poem. It is called
The World of the Nineteen
Moons
."

Irena cried out: “Enough of this nonsense.” She stared at Wayness. "Who are you? What do you want here? You are no social worker! You must leave this house at once; all you have done is damage!"

Wayness said furiously: "The damage was not done by me! Are you not happy that Myron is speaking, that he is mentally sound? Truly, you are a terrible woman!”

“This is the poem," said Myron. “I have just composed it now.” He pitched his voice low:

" 'He swindled them all with the lead doubloons

He had found in
fictitious caves.

Now he's gone to the Word of the Nineteen Moons

Where, out on
the desert of Standing Stones,

He plunders the sacred graves.' “

Lydia said: “That is a lovely poem, Myron.”

Irena started to blurt something, then stopped short, and spoke carefully: "Yes, yes, we must see about this. It is wonderful that Myron is improving. Just one minute, and then I wish to hear you speak some more.” Irena turned and went into the kitchen.

Wayness jumped to her feet. “Quick," she muttered. “We must go very quickly. Follow me.” She started for the entry hall and the front door.

Irena burst into the sitting room, brandishing a heavy kitchen knife. "Now there will be an end to it" She lunged at Wayness; the knife drove down. Wayness jerked away and the knife slashed her shoulder. She reeled over backward and Irena was on her, knife on high.

Lydia screamed: “No, no!” She seized Irena's arm, and the knife shook loose, fell to the floor.

Wayness ran to the door. “Come! She cried” “Lydia! Myron! Come!”

Irena recovered the knife and advanced upon her. Wayness cried: “Run out the back way! Quick, quick, quick!”

She stood in the doorway. “Irena, you must – ”

Irena gave a great scream and leapt forward; Wayness stumbled out upon the terrace. Over Irena's shoulder she glimpsed the face of Clara, home from her shopping, face contorted in a wolfish grin. The door slammed. From within came scream after scream. Wayness turned and ran down the street to the nearest inhabited house. She burst through the door and while an astonished old woman looked on, ran to the telephone and called the police, and also informed the dispatcher that an ambulance might be needed.

XI.

“The time was late afternoon. The overcast had broken and the sun illuminated the central plaza of Pombareales with a wan and cheerless night. The wind blew swirls of dust and bits of litter across the stone flags.

Wayness lay on the bed of her room in the Hotel Monopole. Her wound had been treated and she had been told that aside from a hair-line scar, she would suffer no permanent consequences from the attack.

She had been sedated and only now had started to rouse herself from a semi-stupor. Presently she sat up and looked at the clock. The telephone chime sounded. Doctor Olivano’s face appeared on the screen. He inspected her.