Night Lamp (10 page)

“That’s a very sweet compliment!”

“Kosh Diffenbocker also had a compliment. He said that it was a beautiful thought, but that you were probably more durable than the flower of legend, and if any such pollination had occurred, you seemed none the worse for it.”

“Those are odd compliments, Hanafer Glackenshaw; I am not amused, least of all with you, and you may leave as fast as your fat little legs will take you!”

Jaro arrived at the machine shop, and went directly to the supervisor’s office. Here he found Trio Hartung, who greeted him cordially. “Well, Jaro, what’s for it today? Are you ready to take over my job?”

“Not yet,” said Jaro. “I wish I qualified, however.”

“Come see me when you are ready,” said Hartung. “We’ll start you up the ladder. Believe me, there is lots to learn.”

“Thank you,” said Jaro. “I’ll come as soon as I can find time from school. Is Mr. Maihac around?”

Hartung looked at him in surprise. “Maihac has been gone—let me see. It’s been two weeks now. He shipped out aboard the
Audrey Anthe
, of the Osiris Line. You did not know?”

“No.”

“Odd. He said something about leaving you a message.”

Jaro cast his mind back over the preceding weeks. “I had no such message.” Then he asked, “When will he be back?”

“That’s hard to say.”

Jaro gave a dubious shrug. He left the machine shop and walked back along the line of space yachts. There still seemed to be folk aboard the
Pharsang
, but no one stood by the forward vantage panes.

Jaro passed through the terminal and came out upon the plaza. At open-air cafés folk sat enjoying the fresh air. Jaro seated himself at a table and was served a goblet of iced fruit juice. Feeling hollow and unsettled he sat looking across the plaza. Folk passed in front of him, coming and going from the terminal—persons of many sorts, from many worlds. Jaro paid them no heed.

If a message had arrived at Merriehew, what then? Might the Faths have decided not to distract him during this trying period? And then had either lost or forgotten the message?

If Jaro actively pursued the inquiry, in the end he must look to the Faths for information—which would grate upon Hilyer’s composure and hurt Althea’s feelings. He had no choice but to let the matter drop.

Jaro brooded for half an hour. The basic fact, by itself, was puzzling. Maihac had suddenly departed, leaving no clues as to his reasons. Perhaps, thought Jaro, he was not a man for farewells and preferred to slip quietly away into oblivion.

Perhaps.

One thing was certain: when someone searched into secret places, he often came up with things he would rather not have found.

The property behind Merriehew House at one time had included three thousand acres of wild terrain, and was known as the Katzvold Ranch. Over the centuries the property had dwindled, parcel after parcel, to a mere five hundred acres; still it included a cluster of forested hills, a small river, several meadows, a deep woods, some rolling parkland and, near the house, the area where Henry Katzvold, Althea’s grandfather, had conducted his horticultural experiments. Henry Katzvold was a diligent man of expansive temperament, with a system of tantric theories he stubbornly sought to impose upon reality. He met no success, and produced only freaks and sports, pulpy rots, green slimes and stinking muddy messes. He was killed by a lightning bolt as he marched across his lands; and some said that as he fell he made a last furious gesture, as if to hurl the lightning back at the sky.

Henry’s son Ornold, a poet and Fellow of the Institute, had been accepted into the Scrivener’s Club, though he was a nimp by natural instincts. He transmitted this tendency to his daughter Althea, bequeathing her as well a substantial sheaf of conservatively invested securities, Merriehew House and the five hundred acres of hinterland. The house lacked all fashionable distinction, and everyone agreed that it was suitable for habitancy only by nimps. The acreage was roughly trapezoidal in shape, averaging close to three miles wide and almost four miles in length. The landscape was broken by small gulches, vales and ravines and scarred by decaying stony outcrops. It had often been declared useless for agriculture: both Althea and Hilyer were content to let the land remain a wilderness. Twenty years before there had been rumors that Thanet might expand northward along Katzvold Road, and speculators had hastened to buy up tracts of land at premium prices, among them Clois Hutsenreiter, Skirlet’s father. Thanet, however, had expanded to the south and east. The bubble collapsed and the speculators were left holding large tracts of remote and useless wasteland. The Faths’ daydreams of owning valuable property also collapsed.

At this time Merriehew was an eccentric construction of dark timber and stone, with a complicated roof of many dormers, gables, and ghostchasers. Every year Merriehew seemed a trifle more worn and shabby and in need of loving care. It was also roomy, comfortable and generally cheerful, thanks to Althea’s ebullient personality, along with her flower boxes, gaudy wall hangings and imaginative dinner settings. In the beginning Althea had collected candelabra of every size, shape and material, and each night had illuminated her dinner table with different sets, or groupings. This, she presently decided, was not enough, and began to collect service settings to enhance the beauty of her table. During the years when her enthusiasm was at its peak, Althea created a romantic new adventure in the dining room each night. Hilyer dutifully admired her arrangements, though privately he wished she would channel more of her energies into the production of the cuisine itself. “Let it be fine and let it be ample!” Hilyer muttered to himself.

Hilyer was less attached to Merriehew than was Althea. At times he expressed himself tersely: “Rustic, yes. Bucolic, yes. Picturesque, yes. Convenient, no.”

“Oh Hilyer, come now!” Althea protested. “This is our wonderful old home! We’re used to its jolly little quirks!”

“For ‘quirks’ substitute the word ‘aggravations,’ ” growled Hilyer.

Althea paid no heed. “We can’t dismiss tradition out of hand. Merriehew has been in the family so long that it’s become part of us!”

“You’re the Katzvold, not me.”

“True, and I can’t bear to think of anyone living here but us.”

Hilyer shrugged. “Sooner or later someone other than a Katzvold will own Merriehew. That, my dear, is a certainty. Even Jaro is not a true Katzvold, by bloodline.”

At such remarks, Althea could only sigh and admit that Hilyer, as usual, was right. “Still, what can we do? Move into town, with all the noise? We’d get nothing for the property if we tried to sell.”

“It’s peaceful out here now,” Hilyer agreed, “but I’ve heard talk that one of the local magnates wants to develop the area hereabouts into an enormous complex of some kind. I don’t know the details, but if it ever happened, we’d be in the middle of worse clutter than if we lived in a small convenient place near the Institute.”

“It probably won’t happen,” said Althea. “Remember? There was talk of such things before and nothing came of it. I like this tumbledown old house. I’d like it even more if you would fix the windows and splash on some paint.”

“I’m not gifted in these skills,” said Hilyer. “Ten years ago I fell off a ladder and I was only on the second rung.”

So Merriehew continued to function as before, with only airy space, light, privacy and comfort to commend it.

During his years at Merriehew, Jaro had frequently gone off to explore the country behind the house. Althea at first had been reluctant to let him stray so freely, but Hilyer had insisted that the boy be allowed to wander as he liked. “What can happen to him? He can’t get lost. We have no savage beasts, and even fewer Gihilite Perpatuaries.”
[10]

“He might fall and hurt himself.”

“Not likely. Let him do as he likes: it will develop his self-reliance.”

Althea made no further protest and Jaro was allowed to wander as he saw fit.

Years before Althea had explained to Jaro the source of the house name “Merriehew,” Jaro had learned that in its original meaning the merriehew was a supernatural creature of delicate beauty, something like a fairy, with gauzy hair and webs between its fingers. If one captured a merriehew and nipped one of its ears, the merriehew became bonded to the person who had done the nipping, and must serve as his slave forever. Jaro was assured as to the validity of this legend by the Faths, and saw no reason to disbelieve so pleasant a possibility, and whenever he went walking in the forest or along the meadow he moved silently and stayed on the alert.

A line of steep-sided knolls, partially wooded, marked the southern boundary of the Katzvold acreage. Halfway up one of the slopes, on a flat area beside a rill and shaded under a pair of monumental smaragd trees, Jaro for several years had been building a hut. He used stones, carefully fitted and chinked with mortar, for the walls; saplings of flagstaff pine for the roof beams; layers of broad sebax leaves for the thatch. During his last year at Langolen School he had started a fireplace and a chimney, but slowly he realized his hut had become too small, a toy he had outgrown; to continue the project a counter-productive exercise. He still frequented the area but now he came to read, to draw in his sketchpad, to paint watercolor landscapes and for a period he tried to teach himself the craft of tying decorative knots, using instructions found in a volume entitled:
COMPENDIUM OF 1,001 KNOTS, Both Plain and Fancy
.

One day Jaro went to the site of his hut, sat on the turf, his back against the trunk of a smaragd tree, his strong brown legs thrust out in front of him. He wore pale dust-colored shorts, a dark blue shirt, low ankle boots; he had brought a book and a sketchpad, but he put them aside and sat contemplating the events of his own strange and turbulent fife. He reflected upon the voice and the psychiatrists of Buntoon Hill. He thought of the Faths, who no longer seemed absolutely wise and infallible. With a pang of desolation he thought of Tawn Maihac and his sudden departure from Gallingale. Some day he would see Maihac again; of this he was sure, and then there would be explanations.

Jaro became distracted by the sound of distant calls and shouts, which came drifting over the hill from the property to the south. The noise intruded upon the primitive silence of the countryside. He grumbled a bit to himself, then picked up his sketchpad and began to draw: a space yacht, sleek yet massive and powerful, not unlike the
Pharsang
Glitterway.

A new sound came to his ears. He looked to see someone half sliding, half scrambling down from the ridge. It was a girl: slim, jaunty and somewhat reckless, to judge by the manner in which she descended the slope. She wore dark gray shorts and a red-and-white-striped skirt, a dark green pullover, dark green knee-length stockings and gray ankle boots. In slack-jawed surprise Jaro saw the newcomer to be Skirlet Hutsenreiter, who could no longer be mistaken for a boy.

Skirlet jumped down upon the flat, paused to catch her breath, then crossed to stand gazing down at Jaro. “You look very placid—almost sleepy. Have I startled you?”

Jaro grinned. “Even I must rest.”

Skirlet thought that Jaro looked even nicer when he smiled. She glanced down at his sketchpad. “What are you drawing? Space ships? Is that all you have on your mind?”

Not altogether. “I’ll sketch you, if you care to pose.”

Skirlet curled her lip. “I suppose you mean in the nude.”

“That would be nice. It depends upon the effect you’d like to produce.”

“What foolishness! I never try to produce an effect! I am myself, Skirlet Hutsenreiter; that is effect enough for anyone! Your notion is absurd.”

“Most wonderful ideas are absurd,” said Jaro. “Mine especially. What are you doing here?”

Skirlet jerked her thumb toward the south. “My father and Forby Mildoon are looking over the Yellowbird property, along with a surveyor.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“My father wants to sell. He thinks he has a hot prospect in Mr. Mildoon, who is very sharp, and probably unscrupulous. Worse, he belongs to one of those vulgar Square Circles: the Kahulibahs, I believe.”

“I had forgotten that your father owns the property.”

Skirlet said bitterly: “He doesn’t own much else, which is tragic.” She dropped to the ground, to sit beside Jaro. “A Clam Muffin needs wealth to maintain proper grandeur. I lack that wealth.”

“But you still have your grandeur.”

“Not for long.”

“What of your mother? Isn’t she wealthy?”

Skirlet made a dismissive gesture. “She is an interesting case—but wealthy? No.” She studied Jaro sidelong. “I won’t tell you unless you want to know.”

“I’ve nothing better to do.”

Skirlet pulled up her knees and hugged them. “Very well. Listen at your own peril. My mother is very beautiful. On Marmone she belongs to a social class known as the ‘Sensenitza,’ the ‘People of Grace.’ She is Naonthe, ‘Princess of the Dawn,’ which is quite important, and she can’t be bothered with us poor provincials at Thanet. She lives at Piri-piri, which is a palace half in and half out of a garden. Every day there are festivals and banquets. The folk who come to rejoice wear remarkable costumes, and no expense is too great in the pursuit of pleasure. This goes on for half the year: the ‘High Season.’ Then comes the ‘Low Season’: the other half of the year, when the Sensenitza toil to pay off their debts. The noble People of Grace will now do anything for money. They cheat, they steal, they pander their bodies. They are avaricious beyond belief. When I visited my mother, I arrived halfway through the Low Season, and so I worked three months tending berry vines on the side of Flink Hill. It was hard work, and one of my mother’s friends, the Lady Mavis, stole all my money. No one cared. Then, at the Rite of Renewal, the High Season returned. My mother was once again the Princess of Dawn, and we went to live at Piri-piri, among the flowers and pools. The Sensenitza wore their splendid new costumes and pursued joy with passionate emotion. At night there was a special music that was supposed to express both the rapture of joy and the pathos of heartbreak. I did not like the music. It was too rich and too disturbing. Beneath all the splendor, there was still the strain and yearning and avarice; though now it was concealed by elegant postures and amorous ardor. The Bal Masque was the strangest of all, so strange that I began to doubt my senses. The essence of dreams hung in the air.”

Skirlet grimaced as she recalled the Bal Masque. “In the Pageant of Idylls I was assigned the role of a naked nymph skipping about a meadow. I went to hide in the forest, but some young men chased me.”

“And they caught you?”

“No,” said Skirlet coldly. “I climbed a tree and struck at them with branches and twigs. First they pleaded with me to come down and frolic with them, then they threw clods of dirt and cursed me and called me a freak and a virgin. Finally they went away.”

“That must have been a bad experience, you a Clam Muffin and all.”

Skirlet looked at him, but Jaro seemed solemn and concerned for her safety.

Jaro asked, “So, in the end, what happened?”

“Halfway through High Season, before everyone’s money was gone, I stole all Lady Mavis’ money. It was enough for passage back to Gallingale, so I came home. I don’t think my father was pleased to see me. I wanted to go to the Aeolian Academy at Glist, which is a private school for high-caste students; my father said that we lacked money to pay the fees, which were high. He sent me down the hill to Langolen School, among the Junior Strivers and the nimps, but it was still better than Piri-piri. Now then, to answer your question: I can’t expect any money from my mother.”

“And you won’t be going back to Marmone?”

“Most unlikely.”

Jaro turned to listen, as once again the sound of far shouts drifted over the hill. He asked Skirlet, “Are they calling you?”

“No. The surveyor is shouting to his rod man.” She indicated a small black disk clipped to the shoulder of her pullover. “They will call me through this button when they are ready to go.”

“I thought you might be helping with the survey—taking notes, vamping Mr. Mildoon and so forth.”

Skirlet looked at him incredulously. “Of course not! I just came along for the outing, and I thought I might find your hermit’s den.”

“This is not a den. I am not a hermit. I come here for peace and quiet.”

“Aha! Would you like me to leave?”

“Now that you’re here, you might as well stay. Who told you where to find me?”

Skirlet shrugged. “Dame Wirtz worries about you. She doesn’t want you flinging yourself off into space. She says it’s not wholesome for you to come out here to brood when you could be striving. By the way, what’s in that packet?”