Night Lamp (19 page)

“Strange how these offers continue to surface,” mused Althea. “It’s almost as if someone knows something we don’t.”

Hilyer gave a cynical chuckle. “That’s taken for granted.”

“It’s a real mystery!” said Althea. “There is no intrinsic value to the ramshackle old place except to the three of us. It’s quiet and peaceful; we can hear the wind in the trees and at night the troubadour bats.”

“There’ll be changes if anyone starts a development along Katzvold Road.”

“That’s all just talk,” said Althea. “It’s been going on for years and nothing has come of it.”

“Possibly true,” said Hilyer. “It’s also true that Merriehew is falling apart. The roof leaks; we need new windows in the kitchen, the timber should be treated with Constor. It all means money, time and effort, and what do we have in the end? A cranky old farmhouse with floors out of level and every wall askew. Sooner or later, Jaro will be going off on his own, and we’ll be left to rattle around in an untidy old barn.”

Althea spoke in surprise, “I’ve never heard you say such things before!”

“I suppose I’m in a bad mood.”

“Personally, I’m fond of the old place. I don’t want to sell, and I’m sure that Jaro feels the same.”

“Very well,” said Hilyer. “Just as long as you don’t insist that I paint the place from a ladder.”

They spoke a few moments longer, then Hilyer said, “Jaro has arrived with my documents. Goodbye for now.”

Jaro, upon leaving Hilyer’s office, returned to the corridor. A few yards ahead double doors led into Dean Hutsenreiter’s glossy suite of administrative offices. As Jaro approached, the doors slid open and a slender dark-haired girl stepped out. She wore a jacket and short skirt of pale blue twill; her figure was taut and erect; she held her head high, eyebrows arched, mouth compressed. Noticing Jaro, she stopped short and waited for him to approach.

Jaro thought that she had changed very little. A tousle of short dark locks still clasped her face, with small indication of purposeful planning; she still carried herself with the swaggering bravura that was part of her fabulous legend. She might have been an inch or two taller and her figure was no longer that of a hungry waif. She appeared more serene, less fractious than the Skirlet Jaro remembered, so that he was not surprised when she greeted him with civility. “You are Jaro Fath.”

“Of course I’m Jaro Fath! Who did you take me for?”

Skirlet smiled a humorless smile. “No one in particular. I just wanted to start off on the proper footing.”

Jaro looked at her incredulously, and her smile slowly faded. He said, “I heard you were home and I was wondering when I would see you.”

Skirlet looked over her shoulder toward her father’s offices. “This is not the best place to talk. Come.”

The two descended to the street and crossed to an open-air café beside the broad Flammarion Prospect. They seated themselves at a table under a green and blue parasol and presently were served iced fruit juice.

For a time an awkward constraint held them silent. Jaro finally asked a polite question, “Are you planning to enroll at the Institute?”

Skirlet laughed: a strange bitter laugh, as if the question were hopelessly naive. “No.”

Jaro raised his eyebrows. The response had been incisively final. He tried again. “What have you been doing since last you were home?”

Skirlet looked at him stonily. Jaro became uncertain. He said, “On second thought, it’s not important. Don’t feel obliged to answer.”

Skirlet spoke with dignity: “Excuse me. I was trying to arrange my thoughts. What happened was, in a sense, simple. I was sent off-world, to the Aeolian Academy at Glist, on Axelbarren. I was graduated with honors. I met a number of people; I had some interesting adventures, and now I am home.”

“It sounds pleasant enough,” said Jaro. “Is this what you are trying to tell me?”

“Not altogether.”

Jaro waited while Skirlet brooded upon her experiences. She said at last, without emphasis: “There were good times and times not so good. I learned a great deal. Still, I don’t want to go back now or ever.” Then, after a pause: “What of you? I see that you have not yet run off into space.”

“No. Not yet. But nothing has changed.”

“You still feel compelled to trace down your past?”

Jaro nodded. “As soon as possible—which means after I take a degree at the Institute. The Faths insist and I have no choice.”

Skirlet studied him dispassionately. “And you are not angry with the Faths?”

Jaro stirred in his chair. “No.”

“Hmf. Still, you’d skite off into space this instant, if you were able.”

“Probably. I’m not sure. There’s much to be done before I go.”

“Hmm. What are you studying at the Institute?”

“Engineering, dynamics, space science. Also, Gaean history and musicology, to appease the Faths.”

Skirlet asked, “Do you think I have changed since you saw me last?”

Jaro reflected. “I don’t know what you want to hear. But it seems to me that you are still Skirlet Hutsenreiter, though even more so. I’ve always thought you—I can’t find the proper word—pretty? Beautiful? Perturbing? Charming? Amazing? Nothing quite fits.”

“What about ‘enthralling’?”

“Yes, that’s close.”

Skirlet nodded thoughtfully, as if Jaro had corroborated one of her own deeply felt convictions. “The years go past. I used to think of them as slow tragic heartbeats.” She turned her head, looked down the Prospect. “I remember a handsome boy from long ago. He was very clean and neat; he had long eyelashes and a face fall of romantic dreams. One afternoon, on an impulse, I kissed him. Do you remember?”

“I remember. My head was in the clouds. I’ll become that boy again, if you’ll kiss me some more.”

“You couldn’t change back, Jaro. Even worse, I could never, ever be that girl again. When I think of it, I want to weep.”

Jaro reached out and took one of her hands. “Perhaps we haven’t changed quite as much as you think.”

Skirlet shook her head. “What has happened to me is beyond your knowing. In fact, it’s probably beyond your imagining.”

“Tell me about it.”

Skirlet spoke with sudden resolution. “Very well; if you are interested. But there is something you must do. The girl who left four years ago was Skirlet. She has become someone else called ‘Skirl and that is what you must call me now.”

“Just as you say.”

“I’ll tell you more or less what happened. It can only be an outline, with most of the details omitted—otherwise I’d be talking for a month. It will be hard to abbreviate, since what I leave out will be as strange and intricate as the rest.”

“I’m listening.”

Skirl slouched back into the chair. “A hundred things, a thousand things have happened. It’s hard to put them into order.” She deliberated. “After I left Langolen School, my father said he was closing Sassoon Ayry, and I must go to live with my mother on Marmone. I explained that her palace was an erotic jungle; he said: Tish-tush!’; that I should be able to cope with it, with whatever degree of involvement suited me best. I told him the question was moot, since I refused to go there. I reminded him that he had promised to send me to the Aeolian Academy, which was rated highly by experts. The staff not only provided an education, but exerted themselves to make the school congenial. The countryside was beautiful, with a sea to the north, forests and moors to the south and the city Glist nearby.

“In any case my heart was set on Aeolian Academy, but my father said that it was too expensive, and that he needed all his money to finance his trip to Old Earth. The money for this trip he had ‘borrowed’ from one of my trust funds—which meant, of course, that I would never see the money again. I told him that unless he sent me to Aeolian I would appeal to the Clam Muffin Committee for redress, and they would surely clap him into what is called ‘corrective jurisdiction,’ which would severely limit his options. I had a few hundred sols left in another trust fund; he took this money and said: ‘Very well; you want to attend the extremely expensive Aeolian Academy, and so you shall!’ He showed me his peculiar grin which makes him look like an old fox eating garbage, and I knew that something might be awry. Nonetheless, he told me to pack, that I was enrolled at Aeolian Academy, and the next day I was on my way.” Skirl paused. “Now I must cover more time and many more events. I’ll try to hint at them, but for the most part you must use your imagination—which is a pity, since the reality was so wild and rich. I won’t even try to describe Axelbarren itself.

“I arrived at Glist, and was delivered to the Aeolian Academy. I fell in love with the place instantly. The euphoria lasted until I found that I was not enrolled as a Clam Muffin with private quarters and a formal cuisine. Instead, I was assigned to what was called ‘Scratch-arse Dormitory,’ a kind of economy class barracks where disadvantaged students were accepted. I took my meals at a long table in Roaring Gut Refectory, and bathed in a communal shower. Further, I was required to work twelve hours a week to help defray my expenses. I explained to the Superintendent that there was some mistake; that I was Skirl Hutsenreiter, a Clam Muffin, and would require accommodations commensurate with my status.” Skirl smiled at the recollection. “The Superintendent laughed, as did everyone else in the room. I told them quite smartly that their conduct was boorish, and if they did not correct their attitudes, I would see that they were reprimanded. ‘By whom?’ they asked. ‘By me,’ I told them, ‘if no one of the proper authority were on hand.’ They lost patience with me and declared, rather curtly, ‘We are that authority!’ They told me to read, digest and obey all school regulations, or risk expulsion. But as I turned to go, the Superintendent told me that I could work my stint as a tutorial assistant. I agreed, and presently was introduced to my ward, a girl about my own age, from a very wealthy family. Her name was Tombas Sunder; she was not in any way backward or deficient. Her problem seemed to be absentmindedness and a disinclination for the drudgery involved in schoolwork. She was rather slight, languid and graceful, romantically pale, with long dark hair, large dark eyes. We became friends at once and she insisted that I share her private rooms, which were more than adequate for the two of us. I met Myrl Sunder, her father: a legal consultant, so he described himself. He was not a large man, but deft and strong, with patrician features and soft gray hair in notable contrast with his dark sun-beaten skin. His wife had been killed five years before in an accident, and he never referred to her, nor did Tombas.

“His conduct was civil and correct. I told them something of myself and my background, I mentioned that I was a Clam Muffin, and tried to explain the Sempiternals and their relationship with the striving under-clubs, but I fear that I only confused them, so I spoke no more of my status.

“Myrl Sunder adored his dreamy absentminded daughter. He was pleased to find that we worked well together. The material itself gave her no trouble, but she would start daydreaming unless I kept her attention fixed upon the topic at hand. We never quarreled; she was docile and affectionate, and she also had a mind teeming with wonderful and strange ideas. When I listened to her I was often fascinated, often a bit taken aback by the macabre elements which decorated her fantasies. She prattled cheerfully of her erotic experiments, which were more playful than profound, and I responded with anecdotes of Piri-piri. All the while I wondered how anyone could have thought her deficient. We talked hours into the night, and always I heard something surprising or unconventional. Sometimes her ideas were so wild and mysterious that I wondered if they might not have reached her from a higher psychic plane.

“Tombas liked to brood about questions to which there were no answers: What came before the beginning? Would the universe persist if all living things were dead? What was the difference between Something and Nothing? Then she would ponder the meaning of death. Perhaps, so she suggested, life was no more than a dress rehearsal for what happened afterwards. It was a subject to which she returned far too often, and finally I insisted upon more cheerful topics for our conversations.

“So went the second term. It was a pleasant situation for me. I had luxurious lodgings and all the money I needed. My father never communicated with me. Tombas was more or less as before, though we no longer talked at such intimate lengths. She had other friends: a sculptor, teaching assistants in the Philosophy Department, a musician. Her social life seemed ordinary enough. The second term ended. We removed for the summer to their beach house on Cloud Island. Here many strange things occurred but I can’t digress. Though there is one thing I should mention. Tombas spent much time alone on the beach, watching the surf roll in. Then, for a time, she occupied herself building sandcastles, using a slurry mixed from sand, water and the juice of sea-pink bulbs which hardened into a light crusty foam. She formed this material into domes, spires, cloisters, arcades, courts, balconies. She used an architecture expressing fantasy and magic in a style quite strange to me. Tombas always seemed to become restless when I went with her to the beach, so for the most part I let her go alone. One day I went down to find her doing nothing very much and she seemed disposed to talk. The castle was finished, she said; she would build no more. I told her it was beautiful and asked where she had seen such an architecture. She just shrugged and said it came from a place twelve universes away from our own. She pointed to a window. ‘Look through there.’ I looked through the window and could not believe my eyes. The chamber was furnished with beautiful rugs, chairs, tables; in a large bed a girl lay sleeping.

“Tombas spoke. ‘Her name is Earne; she is about our own age, and this is her palace. She has notified her two best paladins that they must come to her and that she will receive whomever arrives first. From the west comes Shing, built of jet and silver. From the east comes Shang, built of copper and green moidras. They will meet in front of the palace and fight to the death. The survivor will go to her bed and take her in love. Which shall it be? One, should he win, will give her a life of delight and loving care; the other would visit upon her a set of horrifying degradations.’