Marianne, the Matchbox, and the Malachite Mouse (3 page)

‘Rustam is getting terribly fat,’ her father said. ‘You’re in no shape to ride, Marianne, but you should arrange to ship Rustam to Alphenlicht as soon as the baby comes. I hired a stable boy, but he … well, Rustam just isn’t getting enough exercise.’

‘I didn’t write to tell you,’ her mother said, ‘but there’ve been a rash of disappearances, Marianne. The boy your father hired was one of them.’

‘Disappearances, Mama? Here? Do you know, almost the last thing Makr Avehl was talking to me about was disappearances.’

‘Don’t trouble your head about it, Mist Princess,’ her father said heavily with a disapproving glance at her mother. Haurvatat Zahmani was of that school which believed that no woman should be bothered with troublesome or unpleasant facts, particularly not when pregnant, as their fragile minds could easily be overstressed by any burden at that time. How he equated this with his usual demanding attitude toward all the female servants at the estate or his female employees, Marianne had never asked. She didn’t really need to. He would say that Arti and Marianne were different. They were family. Therefore fragile, and lovely, and to be treasured. Never mind that it didn’t make any sense, Haurvatat Zahmani would believe it anyhow. Who should know that better than Marianne, who had had to fight over and over again for the right to be something other than an unwilling bird in a luxuriously gilded cage.

Now she indicated that independence of spirit which he deplored. ‘I certainly will pay attention, Daddy. Who has disappeared, Mother?’

‘People. Just people. The postman, for one. A very happily married man with a new baby he absolutely doted on. And the butcher’s wife. You remember her, Marianne. The big, jolly woman with the laugh that sounded like it started down around her knees somewhere. People do vanish, of course. Children run away. Husbands get fed up and leave home. And so do wives. Old people decide to see the world. It’s just there’ve been so many disappearances lately, and most of them such very unlikely people.’

‘Police think they’ve found an anomaly,’ snorted Haurvatat.

‘A statistical anomaly,’ explained Arti. ‘Evidently there have been more people disappearing in our part of the United States than the statistical average.’

‘How long has this been going on?’ Marianne asked in wonder.

‘Well, one man at the capital says the anomaly started at least fifty years ago,’ her mother offered. ‘Of course, the governor says the man is mistaken.’

‘Governor says he’s a stupid ass,’ muttered Haurvatat. ‘I think the man has a glitch in his software somewhere.’

‘It does seem odd that if something has been going on for fifty years, it should only be noticed now,’ Marianne commented.

‘Oh, no, pretty lady,’ Aghrehond interjected cheerfully. ‘Many things go on for centuries occasioning no remark whatsoever, then, suddenly, someone will notice they are quite remarkable. Planets, you know. They did what they did for many centuries and no one thought much of it until someone said they did not do what people imagined at all. Then, of course, everyone paid attention to them. And genetics. Pink blossoms and white ones and no one having any idea what caused the one or the other. I, for example, had never noticed this place called Cattermune’s, but we have seen now four of them since leaving Alphenlicht.’

Four, Aghrehond?’

‘The one in England, pretty lady, and one at the airport here, and two more since, in shopping centers we have driven by.’

‘It’s a chain operation,’ said Haurvatat. ‘Games, I think, and hobby supplies, and toys for children.’

‘Ah,’ said Aghrehond. ‘I had not seen them before.’

‘I don’t think it’s a new company,’ Marianne’s father mused. ‘Seems to me there was one in New York City ten or twelve years ago. They must have just recently expanded.’

‘Another thing I have just noticed,’ Aghrehond went on irrepressibly, ‘is how like your mother you look, Marianne, though I have seen you both many times, but now I see it and remark upon it. Very much alike, are they not, Mr Zahmani, sir.’

‘Entirely too much,’ Haurvatat blustered. ‘Both as stubborn as mules. Still, I’m rather fond of them.’

‘And we of you, dear,’ murmured Arti with a wink at Marianne. ‘We’ll stop talking about disappearances if you think we should, if it upsets you.’

‘Doesn’t upset me,’ he mumbled, flushing a little. ‘Don’t want it upsetting you.’

‘Nonetheless, it is upsetting, isn’t it,’ said Marianne. ‘All very mysterious.’

‘Let’s get back to the subject of that horse of yours,’ said her father with ponderous cheer.

Great-aunt Dagma, who had always seemed to fill any room she happened to be in, was shrunken to the capacity of one narrow bed. When she opened her eyes, however, they were almost as snappingly black as ever, with the old ‘I will have no nonsense’ expression which Marianne remembered and treasured.

‘Great-aunt,’ she said, leaning forward to kiss her aged relative. ‘You were asleep when I got here.’

‘Marianne,’ Dagma said in return, her voice quite calm though not as strong as Marianne would have liked. ‘Thank you for coming. I’ve left this matter foolishly late. To tell you the truth, I’d totally forgotten about it. If it hadn’t been for that man, coming to ask about Father … Well, I am so thankful that you were within reach, that you responded, that you are here – though, even now, I’m not certain I should have bothered you with …’

‘I’m here, Aunt Dagma. You knew I’d come, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Oh, I knew you’d want to, child. Of course. I didn’t know if that husband of yours would want you to, not so close to the time for the baby, you know.’

‘Well, he did. Now why don’t you tell me what all this is about.’

The old woman didn’t respond at once. Instead, she shifted her eyes from Marianne’s face to the window across the room, looking out onto the green meadows and billowing trees of the Virginia countryside. The window stretched from the floor almost to the ceiling. Before it, muslin curtains blew gently into the room across polished walnut floors. There was the smell of lemon oil and pot pourri, and Marianne breathed it deeply, relishing it, the smell of home, ignoring the other smell that lay under it, the scent of mortality, age, and dissolution.

‘My father,’ Dagma said at last, ‘whom you never knew, my dear, was a very foolish man.’

Not knowing what else to do, Marianne merely looked sympathetic, cocking her head to acknowledge that there must be more to it than that. ‘You said a man came to ask about him?’

‘Just last week. So strange. If my father were still alive, he would be one hundred thirty years old, and he certainly wouldn’t be
here
, living with your dear papa, and yet this very strange person came to ask for him. “Does anyone here know of Staurbat Zahmani?” He had a very furry, portentous voice, quite loud. Even from my room here, I heard him myself, down in the front hall.’

‘That is strange,’ murmured Marianne. ‘Maybe he was thinking of someone else.’

‘No. He said Staurbat Zahmani, and then he said, “He had a daughter, Dagma.” Well, then I heard your father say something about his uncle having been dead for fifty years and his daughter being very ill, “Not expected to get better, I’m afraid,” is what your dear papa said. Haurvatat has always been quite diplomatic. He could just as well have told the man I’m dying.’

‘What happened then, Great-aunt?’

‘The man went away. Haurvatat came up to tell me about it. It made no sense to either of us, but it did start me thinking about my father. When he was young he was foolish, Marianne, and he matured into a very silly man. When he was well along in years, younger than I am now but still what one would think of as having attained the age of wisdom, he got himself into a good deal of difficulty with a … well, with the supernatural.’

Without meaning to, Marianne exclaimed a non-word of shock and dismay.

‘Oh, I know. You’ve had your troubles with such things, too. Witches, and warlocks, and shamans, I have no doubt. I’ve put two and two together, my dear. I’m not entirely unschooled in some of the things you’ve – well, what shall we say – “happened upon.” I spent my youth in Alphenlicht. I learned of, well … the things one does learn about in Alphenlicht. Everyone there takes the supernatural very seriously. Your dear parents don’t know anything about
those
things, of course. They love to talk about their Alphenlichtian heritage, but they’re fully acculturated here. They certainly have no idea about what you really are – or what your half brother really was before he died. I was speaking of you the other day to your dear mother, and I called you “Marianne Three,” and your mother gave me this very odd look. You are the third Marianne, though, aren’t you?’

Marianne did not answer. She merely gave her great-aunt a slightly questioning look as though to say, ‘Dear one, what
are
you talking about.’

‘Never mind. If you are what I think you are, you have lived your life over
at least
three times and have learned things that other people could not even imagine. However, I wouldn’t expect you to tell me about it. If you aren’t what I think you are, you possibly can’t help me at all. So, I’m going to assume that you are …’ She cocked her head at Marianne, but Marianne made no response. Her silence came partly from surprise and partly from shock – she had thought no one but Makr Avehl and Aghrehond and Makr Avehl’s sister Ellat and certain of the Kavi could possibly have known about … well, about all that. Though if any member of her family could have understood about it all, it would probably have been Great-aunt Dagma.

The old woman went on. ‘Be that as it may. That’s your business and I won’t try to intrude on it, certainly not at this late date. Getting back to my problem …

‘My foolish father was an inveterate gambler. In these days we know it can be a kind of illness, like alcoholism, but in his day he was regarded by his family and friends merely as having a defective moral nature. He would gamble on anything, with anyone. And he did so, more than once, at times and in places which were not at all appropriate to say nothing of being sensible! Or safe! On one such occasion my father made a bet with, well, with a supernatural being, and my father lost.’ She paused, as though uncertain how to go on.

‘He couldn’t pay?’ prompted Marianne.

The old woman shook her head. ‘Well he
could
, of course, but he very much wished to avoid it. He had bet his life and his soul, Marianne. He had been what we would say in this country, “set up.” The bet had not been a fair one, but nonetheless, his life and his soul had been lost. By “soul” was meant, I believe, whatever essential nature it is that we humans persist in believing exists. His life was merely his life, but his soul was his “selfhood.” To give him credit, he was a good deal more worried about that than he was about his life. Father took ridiculous risks with his life from time to time, and it never seemed to concern him at all. Now, I don’t know whether souls really exist. When I was younger, I shrugged the question off, but at my age, of course, one wonders. If they do exist, there are certain conditions under which it would be quite terrible for one to be lost …’

‘I should imagine so,’ Marianne interjected, appalled.

‘… such as losing one’s identity to some malignant being for all eternity.’

‘What being?’ Marianne asked, having had some experience with malignant beings in the past.

‘My father never said. I had the impression it was … well. Do you believe in demons, Marianne?’

‘Makr Avehl tells me there are … such things.’

‘I think so, too. Well, when my father had lost his bet and became fully aware of the implications of what he had done, he was in sheer desperation and he went to someone for help. An expatriate Lubovoskan living here in the United States, a shaman named Grutch. Not his real name, of course, which is or was unpronounceable, but Father called him Grutch.’

This was bad news for Marianne. Lubovosk was infamous for its shamans, and she, herself, had reason to know how well deserved that reputation was. ‘Your father felt this Grutch was very powerful?’ suggested Marianne.

‘There would have been little point in going to someone who wasn’t,’ Dagma snapped. ‘And, believe me, whatever you are thinking at this moment concerning my father’s sanity, I thought at the time and said, at some length, to Father. I expatiated on foolishness and irresponsibility and so forth, so we needn’t go over all that again …’ Dagma panted a little, raising herself in the bed. Marianne helped her, then smoothed down the pillow and coverlet.

‘Now, my dear, this is all very muddled because though my father did tell me about it, he told me a slightly different story each time – trying to make himself appear in a more flattering light, I should think. Putting two and two together, I pieced out what had happened. This shaman, Grutch, obtained for my father a very powerful talisman that belonged to a creature named Cattermune. Grutch told my father that this talisman was from some Other Place.’

‘Cattermune! Other Place?’

‘Well, when one hears that phrase, one thinks of hell, doesn’t one? But it was not hell, my dear. I really don’t think so. No, just an Other Place. At any rate, Grutch told my father how he could use this talisman – and I have no idea myself how it was done – and when the supernatural being came to collect my father’s life and soul, the talisman protected my father and the being went away in a fury.’