The Sorcerer's House Read online

  "I see."

  "I got so busy talking I forgot about the toast." She smiled, begging pardon. "There's the bread. Would you pop four slices into that toaster for us?"

  I did.

  "Are you divorced, Mr. Dunn? I am."

  I shook my head.

  "A widower, then. I'm terribly sorry!" Out came the eggs and into a willow-pattern bowl.

  "No," I said. "I'm afraid I'm just an old bachelor, Mrs. Murrey."

  "You're not old!" Plates, silverware and glasses, all very swiftly indeed. "Orange juice? Milk? I never drink coffee until I've eaten. Making good coffee requires too much attention."

  "Might I have both?"

  "Oh, absolutely. You must be thirsty."

  "I am. I've been working in your house, you see, and there's no water."

  (A man came to turn on the water, while I was writing about Doris Griffin. It would have been pointless to write it then, George, as I'm sure you'll agree.)

  The eggs were delicious, and I told Mrs. Murrey so. I could easily have eaten all the bacon; but my self-control, which invariably fails to keep me at a desk for more than an hour or two, was steely now. I ate two luscious strips and left her four.

  "I'm sure you're anxious to get the deed, Mr. Dunn, but I wanted to explain about the money first."

  It seemed possible, even if it was not probable, that I might be paid. I told her, "Very little has always been enough for me."

  "There isn't any. It's all gone. The original fund was twenty thousand. Perhaps you know?"

  Busily chewing toast, I shook my head.

  "Presumably Mr. Black was thinking only of the taxes, which at that time were less than two thousand a year. They've gone up, however."

  "I understand."

  "There have been maintenance costs, too. Maintenance can be quite costly."

  "It need not be," I told her. "Not if I do it."

  "Are you a do-it-yourselfer, Mr. Dunn?"

  "A jack-of-all-trades, and good at some." I am not skillful in modesty, George. You are surely aware of it. Even so, I made the attempt.

  She smiled. "Just the sort of owner the old Black place needs. It was originally painted black. Did you know?"

  "Why, no. I had no idea."

  "A&I Properties had it painted white the first time it needed paint, and I don't blame Mr. Isaacs a bit. I'd have done the same thing."

  "So would I!"

  "Thank you. Five years ago, it needed repainting again. Needed it very badly. So I had it done."

  She waited, seeming to feel that I would berate her for it.

  "White, naturally."

  "Yes, white. I could've had it dun, of course." She laughed nervously. "I thought of it, but it wouldn't have been very attractive."

  I nodded. "A yellowish gray, isn't it? With darker mane and tail. Horses are that color sometimes. Do you play the races, Mrs. Murrey?"

  The question surprised her. "Why, no."

  (This is getting lengthy, I find. I shall switch to the other hand.)

  "I did for a while," I said. "It cost me quite a bit of money in the long run, though I enjoyed it at the time. I've always liked horses." I was struck by a thought, George; no doubt the same one has occurred to you. "You know, I was about to say that our family name is taken from the town of Dunmore in Scotland, and had no connection with the color; but I suppose the town's name may very well refer to it. I can easily imagine a yellowish-gray moor."

  Mrs. Murrey chewed, swallowed, and looked baffled. "It would have cost extra to have it painted that color, I'm sure. Do you think it would be attractive?"

  "Not really."

  "Anyway, painting it used up the rest of the money. I haven't been able to do much of anything since. Frankly, Mr. Dunn, it's a wonderful relief to me to be able to turn it over to the new owner." Mrs. Murrey reached across the breakfast table, and we shook hands again. I have found that real-estate people are great handshakers, George. Excuse me if I have said that already.

  I intended to explain that I was not a buyer, but she had gone before I could get out the first word. There was just time enough for me to borrow a bite of scrambled eggs from her plate before she returned, and I made the most of it.

  "Here's the deed, Mr. Dunn. As you can see," she pointed, "your name is already on it. You don't have to register it again. A&I, and I subsequently, have managed the property on your behalf. That was in accordance with instructions left by Mr. Black. Would you like to see them?"

  I shook my head, which was an error. I admit it, George, although you always say I will not own to having made a mistake. I ought to have read them and asked for a copy. I suggested coffee instead.

  After two cups of her truly excellent coffee, I left Martha Murrey & Associates with the deed in my pocket--left hoisted very high indeed upon the horns of a dilemma. I find myself the owner of a valuable piece of property; but the taxes are in arrears, the utilities will doubtless bill me at the end of this month, and I lack the pecuniary means to restore it to salable condition.

  I will not ask you for a loan, George, having sworn that I would never do any such thing again. But if you were to send a few hundred dollars to me at the address above, I would undertake upon my honor to repay three for two as soon as the house sold.

  Please consider it. Look upon it as an investment rather than a loan to your brother.

  Yours sincerely,

  Bax

  Number 3

  FROM ONE BIG HOUSE TO ANOTHER

  Dear Shell:

  I have a house now. It is a little run-down and there is no furniture yet, but I seem to own it (I have the deed) and I am living in it. That is why I am writing you. It is a big place, and if you needed a place to crash, you would be more than welcome anytime.

  The side door is a problem. Somebody broke in a while back, and now kids come in at night--or that is how it seems. There are funny noises and so forth. I am going to nail it shut.

  As I said in my last, I have not found work; and to tell you the truth, Shell, for the last month I had pretty much stopped looking. I came to Medicine Man to get away from my brother George and his friends (the people whose money I took) and the university. Fine, I did. Nobody knows me or knows I have been in prison. But there are no jobs worth having. I even tried to get on as a substitute teacher at the high school. Their list is full. Young people leave this town to find work.

  Now I might start looking again. Meantime, I am trying to fix up this house. (I keep finding more rooms and more broken windows.) I learned quite a bit in the woodshop and on the maintenance crew, and I have always been handy. When I get it fixed up, I will probably sell it or at least put it on the market. Meanwhile, I have this big house with running water, and I am doing all I can to get the electricity turned back on. It is hard with no money--I am sure you must know all about that. But my allowance will be along soon.

  You will be welcome anytime you get out.

  Yours sincerely,

  Bax

  Number 4

  FISHERMAN'S LUCK

  Dear George:

  This is written largely to clear my mind, but it gives me an opportunity to mention an unfortunate deficiency that I should have brought up in my previous letter.

  You may have been trying to reach me by e-mail, no doubt because you want certain points clarified before you undertake the highly profitable investment I recommended. I no longer have my trusty laptop, George. I was compelled to put it in pawn to pay my rent at the River-man. Thus far--I am not complaining--no means has appeared by which I might reclaim it. Soon, I hope.

  Meanwhile, you may reach me via snail mail. Within the week, perhaps, I will have a telephone; but of what use is that to us when you will no longer speak to me? (Should you abrogate your boorish resolution, allow me to recommend Directory Assistance. At present, I do not know my number.)

  Now to the principal business at hand.

  George, I find myself in possession of a fascinating apparatus. I do not know what it is or what pur
pose it may serve, and yet it must have a purpose--someone went to great deal of trouble to make it.

  You may recall the young prowler I surprised in this house. Yesterday it occurred to me that the candleholder and candle he had dropped might be of use, and I went to find them. As I was looking (it was already dark, so that I had to search by flashlight), I recalled that he had been carrying something else as well. Then that he had appeared empty-handed when he fled to the window. Had he dropped that, too? As it transpired, he had.

  It is of some yellow-brown metal I believe must be tarnished brass or bronze. Its frame (as I style it to myself) is perhaps ten inches by ten. (The width of my thumb, George, is my measure for one inch. I measured it in that fashion just now, having it before me as I write.)

  Within this frame are three concentric rings. In the center is a disk graved with a sort of arrow or pointer. One may move the rings independently for the most part, though at times the movement of one occasions the movement of another. At first I thought they were merely catching or sticking, but the movement is sometime retrograde. The pointer can be moved independently of all three, but at times moves of itself. If I were forced to guess--and I am--I would guess that the rings contain hidden magnets to which the pointer responds when they are aligned. This seems anything but likely, I confess; but I can think of nothing better.

  On both sides, the frame, rings, and pointer are scribed with strange glyphs. There are stars of various kinds, shaded circles that may represent the phases of the moon, a horned skull, and a great many more that I could scarcely sketch, far less describe. Some may be indecent. Some appear menacing.

  Today I carried it to the pawnshop on Broad Street, that being the only establishment in town that might, I thought, be interested in such a thing. The graybeard who operates the shop examined it carefully, as I wished, and at last made an offer which I declined.

  It was not because the paltry price he suggested meant nothing to me; on the contrary, those meager dollars would have bought beans and bananas enough to keep me fed until my allowance arrived. Two considerations moved me, both strongly. The first was that I feel quite confident the apparatus I have described is worth thousands. And the second (which you will already have anticipated) was that the apparatus is not mine. What if the boy were to come to my door and request its return? What if his mother or father came?

  I returned home, as I have indicated, disappointed and hungry, but still in possession. I was toying with it when I observed that all three rings bore glyphs suggestive of fish. I lined them up and directed the arrow toward them, then went a-fishing.

  Here, George, I must describe my grounds, which I have scarcely mentioned to this point. My house has its back to the river. Behind the house is a considerable lawn. (I know, for I have mowed it.) Behind that is a patch of wooded wild ground that slopes fifty feet or more to the water. It is from this wooded patch that I obtain fuel for my fire.

  It will not surprise you to learn that I possess no fishing gear; I was forced to improvise. String became my line, a safety pin my hook, and so forth. Bait offered no difficulty, since this soil shelters a plethora of worms. I fished, as I said; but I caught nothing. My lucky charm (as I had hopefully thought of it) had brought not a single bite.

  Day ended. I gathered wood, returned to this house, built up a small and somewhat smoky fire, lit the boy's candle, and immersed myself in Thucydides.

  My reading had just reached the bit about the Spartan army besieging Oenoe when it was interrupted by a loud and persistent pounding at the door. I opened it, expecting the boy's parents, or--just possibly--the boy himself.

  In that I was wholly wrong. The middle-aged man who had knocked smiled broadly, introduced himself, and shook my hand when I responded.

  "I was getting worried about you," he said. "At first I thought you'd gone to bed, because the house is so dark. Then I saw your fire through the window, and for a minute I thought the house might be on fire. Power failure?"

  "No power yet, I'm afraid. The company's supposed to hook it up, but they haven't done it. I'm camping in the house for the present. No power and hardly any furniture." (That last was a lie, George. It slipped out of itself, and I sincerely regret it. The truth was, and is, that I have no furniture at all.)

  "I see! I see! Say, neighbor, do you know about oil lamps?"

  No doubt I smiled. "Only in old books, I'm afraid. Have you got one?"

  "Sure do, and I'll lend it to you. Gives a hell of a lot more light than that candle. Just give me a minute."

  He hurried off to his truck, which was parked in my driveway, and returned a few seconds later with a tall lamp and a bottle of what proved to be lamp oil. Inside, he showed me how to fill the reservoir and manage the wick. "This right here will give you as much light as a good reading light, and it'll burn just about any kind of vegetable oil. Believe that? I'll burn olive oil. Burn lard, too, or kerosene."

  He lit it from my candle and blew the candle out. As he had promised, its clear, bright light was amazing.

  "Now what I came about was fish. I been fishing up to Brompton Lake and caught a lot, so I've been giving some to the neighbors. Like a couple? They'll be good eating."

  "I certainly would. And thank you."

  "How 'bout three? Give you three easy as two."

  I admired his fish, listened with proper appreciation to a (thankfully) brief synopsis of his adventures that day, graciously accepted three fish of medium size, thanked him, and promised faithfully to return his lamp as soon as my electricity was on.

  His fish--when I had leisure to examine them--proved to be a catfish, and two others that may perhaps have been bass. My lengthy sojourn at the Riverman had left me with a small frying pan, salt, and pepper. I filleted one of the bass in record time and cooked it over the fire.

  I was desperately hungry by then, George. I know my plight will not move you, but I was. I do not know when I have eaten anything better than that fish.

  The second bass was filleted, cooked, and eaten only slightly more slowly.

  Had the catfish retained a spark of life, I think I might have carried it down to the river and released it. It did not, and I knew that it would spoil unless I cooked it at once. My faithful paring knife opened it as it had the others, and I gutted it, as I had the others, on a sheet of newspaper.

  A gleam caught my eye. I shall always remember that moment.

  It was--and is--a ring. I extracted it and washed it at the old sink in the kitchen. The setting is simple in the extreme, though somewhat massive: a ring of gold rising to grasp a gem that winks and glows in the lamplight like nothing I have ever seen, now a reddish green and soon a greenish red, both touched with yellow and black.

  I ate my catfish slowly, enjoying it but full of fish already, and more full of thoughts. Finished it, cleaned up, and began this letter.

  Something has changed, George. I feel it, although I cannot put my finger on it. My luck? That is what I would like to think. If I had funds, I would lay a bet.

  But I have been down that road before. No doubt I would go down it again, though the very thought sickens me.

  I have been given three fish. Three fish, I feel, ought to signify something; but I have no idea what. I have been given--no, loaned--a lamp. Rubbing the lamp (yes, I tried it) avails nothing. And yet . . .

  I found a ring in a fish's belly, like a boy in a fairy tale.

  Suppose that all this had happened when we were boys, George. What fun we would have had! Now I am only a man, alone in a dark house and a little frightened.

  Yours sincerely,

  Bax

  Number 5

  SO MANY SHADES OF BLACK

  Dear George:

  My first thought upon awakening was to take the ring to the pawnshop on Broad Street--the place that has my laptop. I recalled the very low price I had been offered for the apparatus the boy had left behind, however, and thought better of it. A little farther along there are several jewelers. I took it to the neares
t.

  He looked at it and shook his head, looked at the stone through his loupe and shook his head again. "Just costume jewelry, sir. I don't want it, and I doubt that anybody does. A glass jewel and what looks to me like a brass mounting. It's old, but it never was valuable and never will be."

  And in all honesty, George, it looked very ordinary and cheap indeed as long as it was in his hands. When he laid it on his counter, the jewel began to glow again. I slipped it back on, and when I saw it in the sunlight I seemed to have a fortune on my finger.

  "To you, Bax." Isn't that what you will say? "Just to you."

  Well, no doubt you are right.

  Home again and wishing for breakfast, I found mail. The return address (I have it here) reads Country Hill Real Estate. I confess it took me a moment to place the name. Let me transcribe the entire letter:

  Dear Mr. Dunn,

  May I ask a favor?

  Our management here has instituted a new policy. Once per week we must lunch with a prospective client. (And write a one-page report when we return to the office.) I need a prospective client for this week and thought of you. You don't have to buy or sell anything, you understand. How are you making out with your new house? Tell me that, and we're (I'm) in.

  Lunch will be on me. I'll put it on my expense account, and Mr. Hardaway will see it there and pat my pretty little head.

  Anywhere you want to go. Order whatever you want.

  BUT let me know right away so I can relax. Just phone and ask for Doris.

  Hopefully,

  Doris Griffin

  I have no telephone as yet, and could not afford a pay phone--assuming I could find one. Neither stopped me for a moment. I walked to Mrs. Naber's, returned her mower, thanked her, and asked to use her telephone.

  Doris would certainly expect me to have a car, but there was nothing I could do about that short of stealing one. I explained that my license had expired--I did not say why--and asked her to pick me up. She agreed readily.