Marianne, The Magus, and The Manticore
Sheri S. Tepper



DURING THE NIGHT, Marianne was awakened by a steady drumming of rain, a muffled tattoo as from a thousand drumstickson the flat porch roof, a splash and gurgle from the rainspoutat the corner of the house outside Mrs. Winesap's window,bubbling its music in vain to ears which did not hear. "I hear," whispered Marianne, speaking to the night, the rain, the comerof the living room she could see from her bed. When she layjust so, the blanket drawn across her lips, the pillow crunchedinto an exact shape, she could see the amber glow of a lampin the living room left on to light one corner of the reupholsteredcouch, the sheen of the carefully carpentered shelves above it,the responsive glow of the refinished table below, all in a kindlyshine and haze of belonging there. "Mine," said Marianne to the room. The lamplight fell on the first corner of the apartmentto be fully finished, and she left the light on so that she couldsee it if she woke, a reminder of what was possible, a promisethat all the rooms would be reclaimed from dust and dilapidation. Soon the kitchen would be finished. Two more weeks at the extra work she was doing for the library and she'd haveenough money for the bright Mexican tiles she had set her heart upon. 

"Mine," she said again, shutting her eyes firmly against theseductive glow. She had spent all Cloud-haired mama's jewelryon the house. The lower floor, more recently occupied and ina better state of repair, was rented out to Mrs. Winesap and Mr. Larken—whose relationship Marianne often speculatedupon, varyingly, as open windows admitted sounds of argument or expostulation or as the walls transmitted the unmistakablerhythm of bedsprings—and the shimmy part was occupied byMarianne herself. "Not so slummy anymore," she hummed toherself in the darkness. "Not so damn slummy."

If she had been asked, she could not have said why it hadbeen so important to have rooms of her own, rooms with softlyglowing floorboards, rooms with carefully stripped woodworkpainted a little darker than the walls, all in a mauvey, sunsetglow, cool and spacious as a view of distant mountains, where there had been only cracked, stained plaster with bits of horsehair protruding from it to make her think for weary monthsthat she was trying to make a home in the corpse of some great,defunct animal. At the time she had not known about old plaster, old stairs, old walls, nothing about splintered woodwork and senile plumbing—either balky or incontinent. Something in the old house had nagged at her. "Buy me, lady. You'repoor. I'm poor. Buy me, and let us live together."

Perhaps it had been the grace of the curved, beveled glasslights above the front door and the upstairs windows. Perhapsit had been the high ceilings, cracked though they were, andthe gentle slope of the banisters leading to the second floor.Perhaps the dim, cavelike mystery of the third floor beneaththe flat roof. Perhaps even the arch of branches in the tangled shrubbery which spoke of old, flowering things needing to berescued from formlessness and thistle. "Sleeping Beauty," shehad said more than once. "A hundred years asleep." Thoughit hadn't been a hundred years. Ten or fifteen, perhaps, sincesomeone had put a new roof on it. Forty, perhaps, since anyonehad painted or repaired otherwise. Both times someone, anyonehad run out of money, or time, or interest, and had given upto let it stand half vacant, occupied on the lower floor by asuccession of recluses who had let the vines cover the windows and the shrubs grow into a thicket.

Perhaps it hadn't been anything unique in this particular house except that it stood only a block from the campus. Fromher windows she could look across the lawns of the universityto the avenue, across acres of orderly green setting off rose-ash walls of Georgian brick, a place of quiet and haven amongthe hard streets. "Damn Harvey," she hummed to herself, moving toward sleep. This was part of the daily litany: at least adecade of "mine's" and five or six "damn Harvey's."

It shouldn't have been necessary to sell all Mama's jewelry.Harvey could have advanced her some of her own inheritance—even loaned it to her at interest. The past two years of nigglingeconomies, the endless hours using the heat gun to strip paintuntil her ears rang with the howl of it and her hands turnednumb.... "Carpal tunnel syndrome," the doctor had said. "Quitwhatever your're doing with your hands and the swelling willstop. With what your papa left you, sweetie, what's this passionfor doing your own carpentry?" Dr. Brown was an old friend—well, an old acquaintance—who believed his white hair gavehim license to call her sweetie. Maybe he called all the peoplehe had once delivered as babies sweetie, no matter how old they got, but the familiar, almost contemptuous way he said itdidn't tempt her to explain.

"Look," she could have said. "Papa Zahmani was pure, old-country macho to the tips of his toes. He didn't leave his littlegirl anything. He left it all in half-brother Harvey's hands untillittle Marianne either gets married—in which case presumablyher sensible husband will take care of it for her—or gets to bethirty years old. I guess he figured if Marianne wasn't safelymarried by thirty, she never would be and it would be safe tolet such a hardened spinster handle her own affairs. Until men,however, Harvey controls the lot—half-brother Harvey whotreats every dime of Marianne's money as though it were adrop of his own blood."

Anyhow, why explain? It wouldn't change anything. Thetruth was simply that she hadn't the money to pay anyone topaint the walls or strip the woodwork or reupholster the furniture scrounged from secondhand shops. "Junk shops," shereminded herself. "Not so damn junky anymore...."

"You can live on what I allow you," Harvey had said, offhandedly. "If you get a cheap room somewhere. There's noearthly reason for you to go on to school. You are by no stretch of the imagination a serious student, and if you're determinedto live the academic life—well, you'll have to work your waythrough. If you're determined to get a graduate degree—whichwill be useless to you—you'll spend most of your time oncampus anyhow. You don't need a nice place to live. A littlestudent squalor goes with the academic ambience."

Not that Harvey exposed himself to squalor of any kind.His six-room Boston apartment took up half the upper floor ofa mellow old brownstone on Beacon Hill, and an endless skein of nubile, saponaceous Melissas and Randis and Cheryls replaced one another at eager intervals as unpaid housekeepers,cooks, and laundresses for Harvey S. Zahmani, professor ofOriental languages and sometime ethnologist, who had had theuse of all his own inheritance and all of Marianne's since he was twenty-six. Papa hadn't believed that women should takeup space in universities unless they "had to work," a fate evidently worse than death and far, far worse than an unhappymarriage. "I do have to work," Marianne had said to Harveymore than once. "Do you really expect me to live on $500 a month? Come on, Harvey, that's poverty level minus and youknow it." 

"It's what Papa would have done." Bland, smiling, knowingshe knew he didn't give a damn what Papa would have done,that he hadn't cared for Papa or Papa's opinions at all, givingher that twinge deep down in her stomach that said "no furylike a man scorned," and a kind of fear, too, that the man scorned would try something worse to get even.

"Hell, Harvey," she whispered to herself. "I was only thirteen and you were twenty-six. I don't care if you were drunk.You're my half-brother, for God's sake. What did you expectme to do, just lie there and let you use me for one of yourRandis or Cheryls because I was convenient?" It had been afrightening scene, interrupted by the housekeeper. Neither ofthem had referred to it since, but Marianne remembered, and she thought Harvey did, too. Why else this nagging enmity,this procession of little annoyances? 

"You give up this graduate degree business and do somethingmore in keeping with your position, and I'll see about increasingyour allowance...." He had sneered that polite, academic sneer,which could only remotely be interpreted as a threat. Marianne hadn't been able to figure out what would have been more inkeeping with her position. What position did a poverty-strickenheiress have? Great expectations? She had on occasion thoughtof raffling herself off on the basis of her Great Expectations.Perhaps temporary matrimony? No. She was too stubborn. Sue?It was possible, of course, but Marianne felt that going to thelaw to gain control of her money would involve her in moreof a struggle with Harvey than she had the strength for. Nope.If Papa had been a chauvinistic Neanderthal, Marianne wouldplay it out—all the way. But she would not do it in squalor,not even student-style squalor. The jewelry had been given toher when Cloud-haired mama had died. So far as anyone knewit was still in the safe-deposit box. Marianne had never wornit. Now it had gone for fifty percent of its value to pay forthree stories of dilapidated Italianate brick across the street fromthe university, and Marianne spent every available hour withtools or paintbrushes in her hands. The worst of it was done.Even the scrappy little area out front had been sodded andfringed with daffodils for spring, with pulmonaria and bergeniato bloom later, and astilbe waiting in the wings for midsummer.Harvey, if he ever came to Virginia to visit her, which he neverhad, would find only what he could have expected—a decentlyrefurbished apartment in an elderly house. Not even Mrs. Winesap or Mr. Larkin knew she owned the place. "Mine," she saidfor the tenth time that day, sinking at last into sleep.

There had been a time, long before, when there had beengardens lit by daffodils fringing acres of lawn. There had beena time when there had been many rooms, large, airy roomswith light falling into them through gauzy curtains in mistycolors of dusk and distance. Sometimes, on the verge of waking, Marianne thought of that long-ago place. There had beena plump cook Marianne had called Tooky, even when she wasold enough to have learned to say "Mrs. Johnson." There hadbeen an old Japanese man and his two sons who worked in thegardens. Marianne had trotted after them in the autumn, her pockets bulging with tulip bulbs, a bulb in each hand, fascinatedby the round, solid promise of them, the polished wood feelingof their skins, the lovely mystery of the little graves the gardenerdug—what was his name? Mr. Tanaka. And his sons. Not Bob, not Dick. Robert and Richard. Robert digging the round holes, Marianne pitching in the handfuls of powdery bonemeal, Robert mixing it all into a soft bed, then taking the bulbsfrom her one by one to set them in an array. Then, filling inthe hole, the hole so full of promise, knowing the promisewould be kept. And then, in the spring, the clumps of greenstalks, the buds opening into great goblets of bloom. Mariannestanding with Cloud-haired mama to peer into those blooms,into the bottoms of those glorious vases where bees made belligerent little noises of ownership against the yellow bases ofthe petals, a round sun glowing at the bottom of the flower toecho the great sun burning above them.

Marianne didn't even remember it, and yet when she hadbought the garden supplies last fall, she had stood in the gardenshop with her hand deep in the carton of tulip bulbs, not seeing them, unaware of her own silent presence there. When she hadpaid for the plants there had been tears running down hercheeks, and the sales clerk had stared at her in perplexity, forher voice had been as calm and cheerful as it usually was whilethe tears ran down her cheeks and dropped off her chin. Later,she looked into the mirror and saw the runnels from eyes tochin and could not think what might have caused them.

Cloud-haired mama had died when Marianne was thirteen. That was when Harvey had... well. No point in thinking aboutit. After that had been boarding schools, mostly. Papa Zahmanihad sold the big house with the gardens. Holidays had beenhere, in this city, in the town house. Then, only a year later, Papa Zahmani had died. The headmistress had told her in theoffice at school and had helped her dress and pack and be readyfor the car. Two funerals in less than a year, and no reasonanyone could give for either one. No reason for Mama to havedied. No reason for Papa to have died. Dr. Brown acted baffledand strained, with his mouth clamped shut. After that was moreschool, and more school, and summer camps, and college, andmore college. There had not been any home to return to, andthe only career which occurred to her was the same one Harveyhad entered—ethnology. Which might be another reason forhis sniping at her. Harvey didn't like competition. As though Marianne would be competition—though someday perhaps,when she was decades older, if she became recognized in thefield, and... Well. She tried not to think about it. It was better not to think about Cloud-haired mama, or Papa Zahmani, orHarvey. It was easier to live if one were not angry, and it waseasier not to be angry if she did not think about those things.

She woke in the morning to a world washed clean. Outside the window the white oak had dropped its burden of winter-dried leaves into the wind, littering them across the spring lawnswhich stretched away between swatches of crocus purple andruby walls, a syrup of emeralds, deep as an ocean under themorning sun, glittering from every blade. Slate roofs glistened,walls shone, teary windows blinked the sun into her face asshe leaned from the window to recite the roll call of the place.Mossy walks, present. Daffodils, granite steps, white columns, ivy slickly wet and tight as thatch, a distant blaze of early rhododendrons. All bright and shiny-faced, pleased and yet dignified, as such a place should be, her own slender windowsfronting on it so that she might soak it in, breathe it, count it over like beads. Yew hedge, present. Tulip tree, present. Themulti-paned windows of the library across the way; the easyfall of lawn down the slope to the side walk and street at the comer. 

The street. Marianne hastily glanced away, too late. A redbus farted away from the curb in pig-stubborn defiance ofimminent collision. The shriek of crumpled metal came coincident with the library chimes, and a flurry of Me Donaldswrappers lifted from the gutter to skulk into the shrubbery."Damn," she murmured, starting her daily scorecard in theendless battle between order and confusion. "Confusion, one; order, nothing." By her own complex rules, she could not countsameness for order points. There was nothing really new in theorder of the campus, the buildings, the gardens—no lawnfreshly mowed or tree newly planted. She made a face as she turned back to the room, hands busy unbraiding the thick, blackplait which hung halfway down her back. The room, at least,would not contribute to confusion. Except for the Box.

It sat half under the coffee table where she had left it, unable to bear the thought of it lurking in the darkness of some closetor completely under the table where she could not keep an eyeon it. Better to have it out where she could see it, know where it was. "Damn Harvey," she said, starting the day's tally. Ifshe took the Box to (he basement storage room, he might decide 

to come visit her. She believed, almost superstitiously, that theact of taking the Box out of her apartment and putting it somewhere else, no matter how safe a place that might be, would somehow stimulate a cosmic, reciprocal force. If his presence,more than merely symbolized by the Box, were removed, somegalactic accountant might require him to be present in reality.

"Silly," she admonished herself, kicking the Box as she passed it. "Silly!" Still, she left it where it was, decided to ignore it, turned on the television set to drown out any thoughtof it. Despite the bus crash, the morning was full of favorable portents. No time to waste thinking of Professor Harvey S. Zahmani. 

"... Zahmani," the television echoed in its cheerful-pedantic news voice. "M. A. Zahmani, Prime Minister of Alphenlicht, guest lecturer at several American universities this spring,prior to his scheduled appearance before the United Nationsthis week..." 

This brought her to crouch before the tube, seeing a face altogether familiar. It was Harvey. No, it wasn't Harvey. It looked like Harvey, but not around the mouth or eyes. The expression was totally different. Except for that, they could beSiamese twins. Except that Harvey was up in Boston and this man was here at the university to lecture... on what? On Alphenlicht, of course. She had read something about the currentcontroversy over Alphenlicht and—what was that other tinycountry? Lubovosk. There was a Newsweek thingy on it, andshe burrowed under the table for the latest issue as the television began a breathless account of basketball scores and piggybacked commercials in endless, morning babble.

"... Among the world's oldest principalities, the two tinynations of Alphenlicht and Lubovosk were joined until thenineteenth century under a single, priestly house which tracedits origins back to the semi-mythical Magi. A minor territorialskirmish in the mid-nineteenth century left the northern thirdof the minuscule country under Russian control. Renamed 'Lubovosk,' the separated third now asserts legal rights to thepriestly throne of Alphenlicht, a claim stoutly opposed by PrimeMinister of Alphenlicht, Makr Avehl Zahmani...." 

There was a map showing two sausage-link-shaped territories carved out of the high mountains between Turkey and 

Iraq and an inset picture of a dark, hawk-eyed woman identifiedas the hereditary ruler of Lubovosk. Marianne examined the woman with a good deal of interest. The face was very familiar.It was not precisely her own, but there was something aboutthe expression which Marianne had seen in her mirror. The woman might be a cousin, perhaps. "Good lord," Marianne admonished the pictured face. "If you and Russia want it, whydoesn't Russia just invade it the way they did Afghanistan?"Receiving no reply, she rose to get about the business of breakfast. "Zahmani," she mused. She had never met anyone withthat name except Harvey and herself. In strange cities, she hadalways looked in the phone book to see whether there mightbe another Zahmani. Then, too, Alphenlicht was the storybook land which had always been featured in Cloud-haired mama'sbedtime tales. Alphenlicht. Surprising, really. She had knownit was a real place, but she had never thought of it as real untilthis moment. Alphenlicht. Zahmani. "This," she sang to herselfas she scrambled eggs, "would be interesting to know moreabout." 

When she left the apartment, her hair was knotted on herneck, she was dressed in a soft sweater and tweedy skirt, andthe place was orderly behind her. She checked to see that shehad her key, the Box nudging her foot while she ignored it,refused to see it. Instead, she shut her eyes, turned to face theroom, then popped her eyes open. She did this every morningto convince herself that she had not dreamed the place, everymorning doubting for a moment that it would be there. Was the paint still the dreamed-on color? Were the drapes still softaround the windows, curtains moving just a little in the breeze?No rain today, so she left the window open an inch to let thespring in and find it there when she returned. "I love you, room," she whispered to it before leaving it. "I will bring youa pot of crocuses tonight." Purple ones. In a blue glazed pot.She could see them in her head, as though they were alreadyon the window seat, surrounded by the cushions.

Back in the unremembered time, there had been a window seat with cushions where Marianne had nested like a fledglingbird. Cloud-haired mama had teased Harvey, sometimes, andurged him to sit on the window seat with them and listen toher stories. Marianne had been hiding in the cushions of the 

window seat the day she had heard Mama speaking to Harveyin the exasperated voice she sometimes used. "Harvey, please,my dear, find yourself a nice girl your own age and stop this nonsense. I am deeply in love with your father, and I couldnot possibly be interested in a boy your age even if I weretwenty again." Of course, there had only been seven years' difference in their ages, Marianne reminded herself. ThoughPapa had been forty-three, Mama had been only twenty-sevenand Harvey had been twenty. Harvey had been different then;he had been handsome as a prince, and kind, and they hadsometimes gone riding together. She shut down the thoughtbefore it started. "Begone," she muttered to the memory. "Beburned, buried, gone." It was her own do-it-yourself enchantment, a kind of self-hypnosis, substitute for God knew howmany thousand dollars worth of psychotherapy. It worked. The memory ducked its head and was gone, and as she left the room, she was humming. 

At the confluence of three sidewalks, the library notice boardwas always good for one or two order points. The bulletinboard was always rigorously correct; there were only currentitems upon it; matters of more than passing interest were decorously sleeved in plastic, even behind the sheltering glass, toavoid the appearance of having been handled or read. Marianne sometimes envisioned a crew of compulsive, tenured gnomesarriving each night to update the library bulletin board. Though she had worked at the library for five years now, she had never seen anyone prepare anything for the board or post it there.She preferred her own concept to the possible truth and did notask about it. 

"Order, one; confusion, one. Score, even," she said to herself. The bulletin board was in some respects an analogue ofher own life as she sought to have it; neatly arranged, efficientlyorganized, ruthlessly protected. There were no sentimental posters left over from sweeter seasons, no cartoons savoringephemeral causes, no self-serving announcements by unnecessary committees. There were only statements of facts in thefewest possible, well chosen words. She scrutinized it closely,finding no fault in it except that it was dull—a fact which sheignored. It was, in fact, so dull that she almost missed the announcement. 

"Department of Anthropology: Spring Lecture Series, Journeys in Ethnography. M. A. Zahmani, Magian Survivals in Modern Alphenlicht. April 16,12:30 p.m.-2:00 p.m. Granville Lecture Hall." 

She felt an immediate compulsion to call Harvey and tellhim that a namesake of theirs was to give a lecture in threehours' time on a subject dear to Harvey's heart. Not only anamesake, but a Prime Minister. The impulse gave way at onceto sober second thought. Harvey would be in class at the moment. Or, if not in class, he would be in his office persuadingsome nubile candidate for a postgraduate degree that her thesiswould be immeasurably enhanced by experiencing a field tripfor the summer in company with "Call Me Har" Zahmani. While he might be interested in learning of the visiting lecturer, he would certainly be annoyed at being interrupted. WhateverHarvey might be doing, he was always annoyed—as well sheknew—at being interrupted. On the other hand, if she did nottell him and he read about it, as he would, in some journal orother or even, heaven help her, in the daily paper, then shecould expect one of those superior, unpleasant phone calls."One would think, Marianne, that with no more on your mindthan your own not very distinguished academic work, youmight remember that it is my field...."

No. Far better to call his apartment and leave a lighthearted-sounding message on his machine. Then he would have beentold and would not have palpable grounds for offense. Whichdid not mean he would not contrive some such grounds, butshe wouldn't have made it easy for him. She lifted her head in unconscious dismissal. Thinking her way around her halfbrother often required that kind of dismissal. Meantime, shouldshe or should she not go to the lecture herself? Alphenlichtwasn't her subject as it was Harvey's—he had traveled therethe same summer Mama had died. He had talked about it since then, mockingly, and about the Cave of Light. Well. Flip mentalcoin. Rock back and forth on heels and toes. Bite lip. Whynot, after all? She'd had a large breakfast; she'd simply skiplunch. 

And with that it was back to the wars, the library stacks,the endless supply of books to be found, shelved, located,relocated, repaired, and otherwise dealt with. The work.did 

not pay well, but it was steady and quiet; it did not require anextensive wardrobe or the expense of socializing. There wereno men to be avoided, to be wary of, or suspicious of. No office parties. The head librarian did have the habit of indulgingin endless, autobiographical monologues, sometimes of astonishing intimacy, in Marianne's hearing, but with practice theycould be ignored. There were no collections for weddings orbabies. In the library, Marianne was anonymous, virtually unseen. It was a cheap, calm place to work, and Marianne valuedit for what it was. 

At a quarter past noon she left her work, smoothing hersleeves over wrists still damp from a quick wash up. Granvillewas a small lecture hall, which meant they did not expect a crowd. She moved through the clots of people on the steps,dodging clouds of cigarette smoke, to find a place near the front of the hushed hall. The speaker came in with several other people, probably people from the Anthropology Department.His face was turned away, the outline of his head giving Marianne a queer, skittish feeling, as the department spokesmanmounted the podium to mumble a few words of introduction, sotto voce, like a troubled bee. Then the speaker turned to mount the platform and she thought in revulsive panic, "My God, it is Harvey! They got the initials wrong!" Only to seethat no, it was someone else after all. Her heart began to slow. The choked, suffocated feeling began to fade. The first wordsassured her that it was someone else. Harvey's voice was brittle,sharp, full of small cutting edges and sly humors. This man'svoice covered the audience like brocade, rich and glittering.

"My name is Makr Avehl Zahmani. In my small country,which you Westerners call Alphenlicht because of an innocentmistake made by an eighteenth-century German geographer, Iam what you would call a Prime Minister. In a country so smallas Alphenlicht, this is no great office, though it is an honorable one which has been hereditary to my family for almost seventeen centuries..." 

Hereditary Prime Minister, thought Marianne, and so like my half brother they could have been clones. Look at him. The same hair. The same eyes. If Alphenlicht is indeed the oldcountry from which we came, then you are of the line fromwhich we sprang. Harvey wouldn't believe this. I don't think 

I'll try to tell him. She looked down at the notes her hand hadtaken automatically, reading "Hereditary for seventeen centuries ..." Ah, surely that was an exaggeration, she thought,looking up to see his eyes upon her, as startled as hers hadbeen to see him first. Then his lips bent upward in interestedsurprise and went on speaking even as his look fastened her toher seat and told her not to move until there was time to settle this thing, this thing he had recognized.

"There is possibly only one force in human society whichcould have bound one family to so lengthy a course of publicservice. I speak, of course, of religion, and it is of the religionof Alphenlicht, the religion of our people, that I have beenasked to speak to you today..."

Marianne's score between order and chaos was almost even for the week, and Marianne considered this among other things as she went on taking notes without thinking about it. If this man who looked so much like Harvey were like Harvey, thenany further attention paid to him would push the confusionscores for the week—for the month—beyond any hope ofrecouping. However. She looked down to see her handwritingand to underline the word. However! The amusement she was hearing was not Harvey's kind of mockery. This man had agentler mind, perhaps? He would not delight in tying knots inone just for the fun of it? Flip coin, she told herself, but notjust yet. He's got some time to talk before I have to decidewhether to run. 

"Our people serve the god of time and space. Our name forthis deity is Zurvan, One-Who-Includes-Everything. My own family name, Zahman, means 'space.' In the early centuries, B.C., during the height of the Persian Empire, our people werecentered in the lands north of Ecbatana, among the Medes. Wewere known as the Magi..."

So this is a Magus? Black hair, a little long, flowing overhis impeccable shirt collar. Narrow face, imperious nose, higharching, very mobile brows. Sensual mouth, she thought, followed at once by the enchantment words, buried, burned, gone.She would not think about sensual mouths. She wrote 'Magi,' underlined it twice, then looked up to find his eyes eagerlyupon her again. His chin was paler than the rest of his face,as though he had recently shaved a beard. She narrowed her eyes to imagine him with a beard, and a picture flashed—glittering robes, tall hat, beard in oiled ringlets. She shook herhead to rid it of this We-Three-Kings stuff. Beard, she wrote,question mark. Why did he go on looking at her like that? 

Because, said the internal monitor, the one Marianne called old sexless-logical, just as you recognize a family likeness inhim, he recognizes one in you. Obviously.

Obviously, she wrote, listening. 

"Our religion is monotheistic, though not sexist, for Zurvanis both male and female. In our own language, we have pronouns which convey this omni-sexuality (I say 'omni' to allow for the possible discovery of some extra terrestrial race whichneeds more than two)"—polite laughter from audience—"butin your language you must make allowances when I say 'fromhis womb'..." 

Wombmates, she wrote busily, then scratched it out. Allowing for the difference in sex, it was possible he recognized herin the same way she had recognized him. Same eyes, nose, hair, eyebrows. Same mouth.

"We recognized many attributes of this divine unity, butthere was a tendency for this recognition to be corrupted intomere idolatry or a pervasive dualism. This was convenient for kings who needed to incorporate all the little godlets of theconquered into the state religion. There began to be priests andprophets, some even calling themselves Magi, who turned awayfrom the pure, historic religion." 

He's about forty, she thought. Maybe a few years older thanthat. The same age as Harvey. Who should have remained anonly child. Who would have remained an only child exceptthat Papa Zahmani fell for my Cloud-haired mama and the twoof them went off into eternity, unfortunately leaving me behind.From Harvey's point of view. Not that he had ever actually said anything of the kind.

"In the third century A.D. there were widespread chargesof heresy brought by one Karder, a priest serving the currentSassanid king. Karder espoused a more liberal faith, one whichcould incorporate any number of political realities. He and theking found the Zurvanian Magi difficult to... ah, manipulate.The charges of heresy were made first, on the grounds that theking's religion was the correct one, and the persecutions came after. My people fled north, into the mountains..."

He was turning to the map on the easel, putting on glassesto peer at it a little nearsightedly, taking them off to twiddlethem, like Professor Frank in ethno-geography. Like old Williams. Lord, he could be any teacher, any professor. Why didshe feel this fascination? 

"The area is now called Kurdistan, near what was Armenia. The borders of many modern nations twist themselves togetherin this region—Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Syria, the U.S.S.R.—ofwhich I will have more to say later. In the midst of this tangled,inaccessible region, my people established a theocracy a millenium and three quarters ago. There were no roads into thecountry then. There is one entering our country now, from thevicinity of Van, in Turkey. There is another, not so good, fromthe area around Lake Urmia in Iran. We have no airport, thoughwe have improved the road during the last decades, to accommodate those who seek the Cave of Light..."

If he talks about the Cave of Light as endlessly as Harveytalks about the Cave of Light, I will simply get up in a dignified manner and leave, she thought. As though I have to get toclass. As though I were late for an appointment with the dean.He went on talking about the Cave of Light, and she didn'tmove. Her hand went on taking notes, quietly, automatically,while she sat there and let the words flow through. Harveycalled the Cave of Light a kind of historic Ouija board. MakrAvehl Zahmani obviously thought it was more than that—agood deal more than that. I can't be taking this seriously, she thought. Magi, for God's sake. Magians, magicians, magic. Lord. 

"Several generations ago the czars of Russia extended theirborders in several areas. One such extension cut our small country into two parts. The northern third of it was gobbled up into Russia and renamed Lubovosk. The Magi who live inLubovosk are still our people, our separated people. They nowhave their own charges of heresy to contend with. In seventeenhundred years not that much has changed. Now, I have used my allotted time. If any of you have questions, please feel freeto come forward and ask them of me." 

She did not move during the light, appreciative applause.He had been a good speaker. The hall emptied. A half-dozen 

argumentative students went forward to pick at details of histalk. She sat. Even when the arguers went away and the speakercame toward her, she sat as he scanned her face quarter inchby quarter inch, shivering between smile and frown.

"My dear young woman," he said, "I believe we must be related." 

She could not afterward remember quite how it happenedthat she accompanied him to the only good restaurant nearbyand found herself drinking a third or fourth glass of wine asshe finished her dessert. She seemed to have been listening tohim for hours as he sparkled and glittered, telling her marvelousthings about marvelous places and people. Something he saidmade her comment on her game of muddle versus order andher lifetime cumulative score. 

"Confusion is winning," she admitted. "Not so far ahead that one gives up all hope, but far enough to make me veryanxious. It uses up a lot of energy."

"Ah," he said, wiping his lips with his napkin before reaching out to touch her hand. "Do your rules allow transfer of points?"

"I don't understand. What do you mean, transfer?"

"Well, my own lifetime cumulative score is somewhat betterthan yours. I have several thousand points ahead for order. Ofcourse, I have an advantage because of the Cave of Light—no. Don't say that you don't believe in it, or that it's all terriblyinteresting, but.... All that isn't really relevant. I simply wantto know if your rules allow transfer of points, because, if theydo, I will transfer a thousand points to you. This will take offthe immediate pressure, and perhaps you can strengthen yourposition sufficiently to mount a counterattack."

If there had been any hint of amusement in his voice, evenof a teasing sort, she would have laughed politely and—what?Accepted? Rejected? Said something about one having to playone's own hand? The surface Marianne, well educated in the superficial social graces, could have handled that. However, this did not sound like a social offer. The tone was that of an arms control negotiator placing before the assembly the positionof his government. It reminded her that she was speaking witha Prime Minister, all too seriously, and yet how wonderful tobe ahead for a while. A gift of such magnitude, however, might 

carry an obligation. Begone, buried, she whispered to herself."It's too much," she whispered to him, completely serious."I might not be able to repay."

"Kinswoman," he said, laying his hand upon hers, the tingleof that contact moving into her like a small lightning stroke,shocking and intimate. "Kinswoman, there is no obligation.Believe me. If you know nothing else of me, if we do not meetagain, know this of me. There is no obligation."

"But—a thousand. So much?" 

"It is important to me that my kinswoman win her battles,that she be decisively ahead. That she be winning and knowherself to be winning."

"But it wouldn't be me who was winning."

"Nonsense. If a gunner at the top of a hill uses all hisammunition and an ally rushes ammunition to him at a criticaltime, it is still the gunner who wins if he keeps his head anduses all his skill. He has merely been reinforced. We are kinsmen, therefore allies. You will forgive me if I do not say 'kinspersons.' I learned my English in a more elegant setting,in a more elegant time. However, you need not decide at thismoment. Merely remember that it is important to me that youwin. There is no obligation beyond that. You would favor me by accepting." And he left the subject, to talk instead of Alphenlicht, of his boyhood there, being light and gracious.

When they parted, it was like waking from a dream. Fragments of their conversation fled across her mind only to dissipate. The lecture hall, the restaurant assumed dream scaleand color. When she turned to see the restaurant still behind her, solid and ordinary as any other building on the street, itwas with a sense of detached unreality. She attended a class,took notes, entered into the discussion, and did not remember it five minutes later. She went to her apartment, stopping onthe way to shop for food and milk, and stood inside it holdingthe paper sack without knowing where she was. It was a square,white envelope on the carpet that brought her to herself at last,her name written on it in a quick, powerful hand. The messageread, "I have transferred one thousand order points to you. Ifyou do not wish to receive them, you may return them to me. May I have the pleasure of your company at dinner on Thursdaynight? I will call you tomorrow. Makr Avehl." 

When she touched the envelope, she received the same tingling shock she had felt from his hand, but as she read thewords, most of the cloudy confusion vanished.

"He did give me a thousand points," she told herself, knowing with certainty that it was true. "I've got them, I can tell Ihave," knowing that she not only had them but had acceptedthem. If she had not had them, she would have been too confused to accept them. Now that she had them, she knew she would keep them. "It's like an anti-depressant," she said to herself, caroling, doing a little jig on the carpet so that thegroceries ripped their way through the bottom of the brownbag and rolled about on the rug, oranges and lemons and brown-and-serve rolls. "Before you take it, you're too depressed towant it. After you take it, you know it was what you needed."

There was, of course, one small confusion. Her door had been tightly locked. No one had a key except herself. How,then, had the square white envelope come to rest in the middleof the carpet, where she could not fail to see it but where noone could possibly have put it?

Magus, she hummed. Magi, Magian, Magician. 




THERE WAS A knock at the door. Someone turned the knob and Marianne heard Mrs. Winesap's voice.

"Girl? I heard you coming in. Someone brought you a pretty."Mrs. Winesap was addicted to slightly regional speech, theregion in question varying from day to day so that Mariannewas never sure whether the woman was from the South, West, or New England states. On occasion, Mrs. Winesap's speechapproached an Elizabethan richness, and Marianne thought thetrue source of her changing accent might be overdoses of BBCperiod imports. 

"Mrs. Winesap. Come on in. What is it?"

"Crocuses," the woman replied. "In a pretty pot. A man brought them. I was out front, and he came along looking lost,so I asked him who he was looking for. After he told me they were for you, we got to talking. I thought at first he might beyour brother, there being a family resemblance and my eyesnot being that good. Then I knew that was silly, your brother being the kind of person he is and all." 

Marianne had never discussed Harvey with Mrs. Winesapthat she could recall, and her attention was so fixed on the gift 

that she completely missed the implications of this statement.Mrs. Winesap often seemed to know a great deal about Harveyor, perhaps more accurately, knew a great deal about peopleand things that affected Marianne.

"The man who brought these is... he's a kind of cousin, Iguess, Mrs. Winesap. I met him today. It was nice of him tobe so thoughtful." The crocuses were precisely as she hadvisualized them, purple ones, in a glazed pot of deepest, persianblue. 

"Same name as yours, so I guessed he was some kind ofkin," commented Mrs. Winesap. "Anyhow, he left the flowerswith me after he made me promise six times I'd see you gotthem as soon as you got home. Seemed like a very determinedsort of person. You got something cold to drink, Marianne? Ibeen moving that dirt out back, and it's hotter'n Hades forApril."

Marianne hid a smile as she went to the refrigerator. It wastrue that Mrs. Winesap was a bit dirt-smeared, and also truethat she was largely responsible for the emerging order in thegarden, but it was not even warm for April, much less hot.Mrs. Winesap simply wanted to talk.

"Larkin bought an edger at the flea market. Paid a dollar and a half for it. Want to go halfies?" This was rhetorical. Mr. Larkin would present Marianne with a written bill forseventy-five cents, which Marianne would pay without demur.Sometimes Marianne believed that the two downstairs tenants suspected Marianne owned the place and were playing a gamewith her. Other times she was sure they had no idea. Whatevertheir suspicions or lack thereof, they had decided that gardenmaintenance was to be their particular responsibility, and thatthe upstairs tenant should pay what they delighted in calling "halfies." Since the expenditures never exceeded two or threedollars at a time, Marianne managed to cope.

"An edger?" she asked. 

"You know. A flat blade on a handle, to cut the grass straightwhere it comes along the flower garden. It was all rusty is howcome he got it so cheap. You know Larkin. Give him somethingrusty and he's happy as a clam all day cleaning it up. Does your brother know this cousin of yours?"

As usual with Mrs. Winesap's more personal inquiries, the question caught Marianne completely by surprise and she answered it before she thought. "No. I just met him today myself."

"Ah," said Mrs. Winesap with deep satisfaction. "So you'llhave to call your brother and tell him about it. About meetinga new relative and all." 

The emotion Marianne felt was the usual one, half laughter,half indignation. Her response was also the usual one: dignified,slightly cool. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I was just going to callHarvey, Mrs. Winesap. Take that soda along with you. I do need to catch him before he leaves for the evening...." Polite,firmly shutting door behind her visitor, Marianne fought downthe urge to peer through the keyhole at the landing in fear shemight see Mrs. Winesap's eye peering back at her. Instead shewent to the phone, moved both by her assertion and the needto leave some kind of message.

Harvey always considered it an intrusion for Marianne totell him anything. Nonetheless, he would deeply resent notbeing told. A quick message on his machine would be the leastrisky way of informing him, and if she avoided answering thephone for a while after that, he might see Makr Avehl Zahmani'sname on the news and realize that Marianne was, in fact, onlytelling him the truth. It was part of Harvey's usual treatmentof her to accuse her of making up stories, as though she werestill seven years old, and once committed to the assertion thatshe was fabricating it would be hard for him to back off. Sheencouraged herself to take a deep breath and do it, managingto make the message sound calm and good-humored. She unplugged the phone with a sense of relief. She didn't want to hear it ring if he called her back.

"I am ahead on points," she told herself. "Well ahead, andI have no intention of ever getting behind again." She tried thepot of crocuses in various places, finally putting them on thewindow seat as she had originally intended, then threw together a few scrappy bites of supper. When she had finished, she started to take the dishes into the kitchen, stumbling unexpectedly over something which was not supposed to be there. 

The Box. 

It was at the edge of the kitchen counter, where she couldnot avoid stepping over it, where she must have already stepped over it while preparing her meal without seeing it, without remembering. She stared at it in confusion. That morning—yes, that morning it had been in the living room under thecoffee table. Who could have moved it? Mrs. Winesap? Perhapsout of some desire to help, some instinct to tidy up? With agrimace of actual pain she lifted it back to the place she lastremembered it being, half under the table, possessed in that moment by a completely superstitious awe and fear.

The Box was a symbolic embodyment of Harvey-ness. Ifshe gave him cause for disturbance up in Boston, then the Boxwould take it out on her down here in Virginia. She knew thiswas ridiculous but was as firmly convinced of it as she was ofher own name. Her mood of valiant contentment destroyed,she went about her evening chores in a mood of dogged irritation. Sounds bothered her. Traffic. Mrs. Winesap rattling the trash cans. Doors closing. A phone ringing. Mrs. Winesaplaboring up the stairs and a repetition of that firm, brook-nononsense knock, the knob turning, her voice.

"Girl, your brother called our phone. Says he's been tryingto reach you and can't get an answer." Broad face poked around the edge of the door, eyes frankly curious as the face wasfrankly friendly.

"Oh—shit," said Marianne, breaking her own rules concerning language and behavior.

Mrs. Winesap pulled a parody of shock over her face. She had heard Marianne's lecture on scatology directed more thanonce at Mr. Larkin. "Got the phone unplugged, haven't you?"

Marianne nodded in dismal annoyance. "How did he knowto call you? He's never been here. He's never even met you." 

"Yes, he did. Came by one day about two weeks ago. Toldme he was your brother. Introduced himself. Course, I introduced myself back. We talked some."

"You... talked some." 

"I told him it was a nice day," she reported with dignity,"and I told him you weren't in your apartment but I'd be gladto take a message. He pumped me all about you, and I let himknow I was blind in both eyes and couldn't hear out of eitherear. Did tell him my name, though, and I'm in the book."

"You never told me." 

"No reason to. Why upset you? I didn't like him, so I figured 

you probably didn't either. He was all over sparkle like a merry-go-round horse, expecting anyone with a—with breasts to falldown and play dead."

"Oh." This was precisely Marianne's view of Harvey, butshe had not thought it generally shared. This explained why Mrs. Winesap had at first thought Makr Avehl was her brother."So, he knew your name and looked you up in the book."

"Most likely. Anyhow, just now I told him the reason youdidn't answer was you weren't in and I'd be glad to leave a message for you to call him. Consider message delivered. OK?Seemed best." 

"Thanks, Mrs. Winesap."

"One of these days, girl, you'll get tired of calling me 'Mrs. Winesap,' and the name 'Letitia' will just slip out. I won't mind, whenever that is." She shut the door firmly behind her, leaving Marianne in some limbo between laughter and tears.

The door opened again to allow Mrs. Winesap to deliver herself of an utterance. 

"Marianne, whatever it is you don't like about that man,brother or not, you got a right. Don't you sit up here feelingguilty because you don't like him."

This time tears won. 

Oh, yes, she did feel guilty about it. The only family shehad left, the only kin, and she frequently wanted him gone."Begone, burned, buried," she chanted quietly. If there was any actual guilt, it was Harvey's, not Marianne's, but knowingthis didn't seem to make the horrid nagging weight of it anyeasier. She often tried to reduce the whole conflict to one of disparate personalities. "He is domineering," she told herself,"and authoritarian. He relishes power, and he uses it, but heis not some all-devouring monster." Saying this did not convince her this time any more than it had before.

"So, I'll return his call," she told herself, plugging in thephone and tapping his number with hesitant fingers.

"Harvey? Returning your call?" She listened with suppressed, seething warmth as he complained that she had notbeen in earlier, that she should not leave messages on hismachine unless she would be available to take a call, that—. 

"Harvey, I am sorry. I didn't intend that you should have to take the trouble to call me. I just wanted you to know aboutthe Zahmani Prime Minister from Alphenlicht. I thought you'd be interested." 

Oily sweet, the voice she hated. "Bitsy? Are you playing one of those infantile 'let's pretend' games again?"

She heard her own voice replying, "Harvey, hold on a moment, will you? Someone's at the door." She took a deep breath,strode to the door, opened it, closed it, mumbled to herself,struck the wall with her hand. Her usual response to him underlike circumstances would have been something full of self-doubt, something cringing. Harvey, I don't think so. He really did look as though he was related. He really did say...

She returned to the phone. "Harve. Someone has come andI have to go now. If you catch the news tonight or tomorrow, you'll probably see the Prime Minister on it. He's here to speakat the U.N. Sorry I have to run." And hung up on Harvey S. Zahmani without waiting for permission.

He would not want to appear foolish, not even to her. Give him time to find out that what she had told him was the simpletruth, and he'd be less likely to take some irrevocably punitivedecision about money matters—always his last argument whenothers failed. She unplugged the phone again, resolving not to connect herself to the world again until morning. "One more point for order," she sighed. "Score for order, for the day, one thousand and one." 

In the morning, she forgot to connect the phone. When shegot home, it was ringing. There was no time to think who? How? She knew it was Makr Avehl and answered it without a qualm. "Thank you for the flowers," she said, her voice slipping sideways into childlike pleasure. 

"You said you intended to shop for some," he replied, "butI knew you wouldn't have time yesterday if you were in class.I took most of your afternoon, so it was only proper to repay."His voice was enthusiastic, warm. It changed suddenly. "I was in New York today, at the U.N. I met your brother. He's verylike you in appearance."

"Harvey's in Boston," she said. "Not at the U.N. You can't have—" "Sorry," he laughed. "I didn't lead up to it. A woman namedMadame Delubovoska and I are on opposite sides of a very 

small international issue. Madame and I are related. Madame, it turns out, is your half-brother's aunt, his mother's much younger sister. Today, in New York, your half-brother wasvisiting his aunt and I met him. Is that somewhat more clear?I said he much resembled you."

"It's you he resembles, actually. When I first saw you, I thought you were Harvey.""That's true. You even said so." There was a long silence,a calculating silence. "Marianne, may I come see you?"

"You're in New York." 

"No. I was in New York. I'm about two blocks from you, in a phone booth.""Well, of course. Yes. Can you find the house—oh, you'vealready been here once."

"I'll find you." Dry-voiced, humorous, amused at her confusion. She put her hands against her flaming face. It took practice to behave with calm and poise around men like MakrAvehl—around men at all. Marianne had not practiced, hadno intention of practicing, for she had decided not to need suchskill. She told herself that just now her concerns were housewifely. She hadn't dusted, hadn't vacuumed since the weekend.Well, it didn't look cluttered, except for the Box. Better leaveit, even if he noticed it. 

There was nothing in the house to offer him except somesherry and cheese and crackers. Well, he couldn't complain, dropping in unexpectedly this way. Quick look in the mirror,quick wash up of hands and face. No time for makeup. No need with that hectic flush on lips and cheeks. "Lord," she thought, "one would think I had never had anyone drop inbefore." A moment's thought would have told her the truth of this. There had been no one to drop in. Except for Mrs. Winesap. And the plumber. And the phone man. And people of thatilk. The stairs creaked outside her door. 

He stood there in a soft shirt and jeans, not at all like aPrime Minister, perhaps more like her childhood dream of afairy tale prince.

"You didn't bring your horse and lance," she said, caughtup in the fantasy.

"The joust isn't until later," he replied, "unless you have adragon you want skewered in the next half hour?" She was so 

involved in the story she was telling herself that it did not seemin the least remarkable that he had read her mind. Laughing,she waved him in. 

They drank sherry and ate cheese. Makr Avehl sprawled onthe window seat and waved his finger in her face as he lecturedon the day's events. "I made my speech. Madame made herspeech. Neither of us convinced the other. I will now bore yougreatly by telling you what the dispute is about?" There wasan interrogative silence, not long, for she was happy to let himcarry the burden of their conversation. "Madame and I are cousins, of the same lineage, you understand. When our landwas cut into two parts in the last century—as the result ofsome minor Czarist expansion or other, utterly unimportant andlong forgotten except to those of us directly involved—Tahiti'sgreat-grandfather was in the northern piece of the country andmy great-grandfather was in the southern part. They were brothers. You heard my little speech the other day, so you knowthat Alphenlicht is a theocracy." He bit a cracker noisily, examining her face. "Don't wrinkle your nose so. There are nicetheocracies, and ours is one. We are not reactionary or authoritarian; we do not insist upon conformity or observation oftaboos." He raised one triangular brow at her, giving her abrilliant smile, and she felt herself turning to hot liquid fromher navel to her knees as her face flamed. 

She rose, made unnecessary trips with glasses, ran coldwater over her wrists in the kitchen. 

He went on. "At any rate, in the southern half of Alphenlicht, things went on very much as they had for a very longtime. We did begin sending some of our young people out ofthe country to be educated, and we did begin to import someengineers to do modem things like building roads and bridges.We also imported a few motor vehicles, though certain of theKavi, that is, members of the priesthood, questioned that muchinnovation." 

"I thought you said you were not reactionary?" She managedto sound matter-of-fact rather than sultry, with some effort.

"Oh, it wasn't a question of religion. It was a question ofaesthetics. Some members of the Council simply felt that carsand trucks smelled very bad. There were long arguments concerning utility versus aesthetics. I've read them. Very dull. 

"To continue with my tale: The narrow pass which connectedAlphenlicht and Lubovosk was controlled by Russian borderguards. Over the past hundred years interaction between thetwo parts of the country has been very much restricted. Accessto the Cave of Light has been almost impossible for people from the north. Since they had been accustomed to using thecave, they evolved their own substitutes. People do find waysto get answers to important questions. Theirs involved a heavyadmixture of shamanistic influences." 

"I thought shamans were from—oh, the far north."

"Some are. Some are found in Turkey. The black shamanswho came to Lubovosk did happen to be from the far north.Well, at this point we may make a long story short. Four generations after the separation, a group of people in Lubovosk,supported by the U.S.S.R. for obvious reasons, has decided that Lubovosk, not Alphenlicht, is the true heir to the religiousleadership of both countries. They base this on the fact thatMadame's great-grandfather was my great-grandfather's olderbrother. They conveniently ignore the fact that after severalgenerations of re-education and shamanistic influences, there'sno one in Lubovosk who even pretends to believe in religion,a prerequisite, one would think, if a theocracy is to work. The 

U.S. State Department supports us, of course. Russia supportsLubovosk's ridiculous claim. No one else cares. So we have gone through this charade. When it was all over, some of thedelegates woke up and went on with their business. Everyonewas very bored. The only two people present who took itseriously were Madame and I. Do you know Tahiti? She isnamed, by the way, for the fire goddess of our ancestors. Notinappropriately."

"Madame Delubovoska? No. I never knew she existed until a few days ago."

"As I told you, she is a kind of back side kin of yours. Youcan imagine how surprised I was when she introduced Professor Zahmani to me. I knew at once who he was, of course, for you had told me about him."

"Not too much, I hope," she said in astonishment. "I certainly never thought you'd meet him....""Ah. Well, it turned out fortuitously. I had just invited Madame to the country place we have taken here when she intro

duced me to your brother. So I invited him as well, intendingthat you, also, should be my guest."

"Oh. With... Harvey? I don't..." She did not know what to say. The thought stunned and horrified her, and her voicebetrayed the emotions. There was a strained silence.

"I see I have made a mistake," he said with obvious discomfort and an expression almost of dismay. "There is something awkward? You do not like him?"

"I—I'm probably very childish. It's just—he's quite a bit older than I. He was left rather in charge of my affairs whenPapa Zahmani died. He is not..."

"Not sympathetic.""No. No, you may truthfully say that he is not sympathetic.Not where his little sister is concerned." 

"But it's more than that? Even when I said I had met him, there was a certain quality in your silence. It is somethingwhich makes you reluctant to meet him at all?"

"It is awkward," she admitted. "Sometimes I interpret thingshe does and says as—threatening. He may not intend them inthat way. And yet..."

He was looking at her in a curiously intent way, not intimately, more as though he found her a fascinating item of study.The perusal did not make her feel insulted or invaded, as men'sthoughtful glances sometimes did, but she felt the questingpressure of his gaze as an urgent interest, impossible to ignore.It was suddenly important that he know how she felt... andwhy. Particularly why.

She reached down and tugged the Box from beneath thetable, pushing it toward him so that it rested against his wellpolished shoes. "Look in that. Everything in there is somethingHarvey has given me over the last several years. Presents. Together with suggestions as to where to display them. I couldn't... couldn't bring myself to put them out, not here,so I've kept them in this box."

He put down his glass. She had not sealed the Box, but hadmerely closed the cardboard carton by folding the top together.He opened it and drew out the two framed prints which lay ontop, setting them side by side against the table and regardingthem with the same intent gaze he had focused on her.

To the right was a cheaply framed print of an Escher lith

ograph, an endless ribbon of black fishes and white birds swimming in space, at one end the black figures emerging, at theother the white, coming forward from two dimensions intothree, from shadow shapes into breathing reality, one whitebird flying free of the pattern only to be cruelly killed by thedevilish fangs of the metallic black fish.

"It bothered me when he gave it to me. So, one day at thelibrary, I looked it up," she said, trying to be unemotional.Everything in her screamed anger at the black fish, but shewas so long experienced in swallowing her anger that she believed it did not show. "The artist wrote that the bird was all innocence, doomed to destruction. Not exactly cheerful, butby itself it shouldn't have made me feel as unpleasant as I did.Then I got the other one..."

He turned his attention to the other print, this one of a painting. "Paul Delvaux," murmured Makr Avehl. "Titled Chrysis. Well." 

A naked girl stood on a lonely platform at the edge of anabandoned town, a blonde, her scanty pubic hair scarcely shadowing her crotch, eyes downcast, lacy robe draped behind heras though just fallen from her shoulders, right hand holding alighted candle. To the left of the picture a floodlight threw hardshadows against a dark building. On a distant siding, a freightcar crouched, red lights on it gleaming like hungry, feral eyesin the dark. 

"She's like the white bird in the other picture," Mariannesaid. "All alone. Totally vulnerable. She has no protection atall. Nothing. Someone horrible is coming. You can tell she knows it. She is trying to pretend that she is dreaming, but sheisn't." 

"Ah," he said. "Is there more?"

She reached into the bottom of the Box to pull out the littlecarvings of ivory, basalt, soaps tone. Eskimo and Bantu andold, old oriental. Strange, hulked shapes, little demons. Another black fish. A white skull-faced ghost. An ebony devil.A small ornamented bag made of stained and tattered skin withsome dry, whispery material inside. "I don't know what's in it," she said, apologetically. "I didn't want to open it. Harveysaid it was a witch bag. Something from Siberia? I think hiscard said it belonged to a shaman." 

"Yes," said Makr Avehl soberly. "I should think it probablydid. And should never have left Siberia. It is black shamans from there who have come to Lubovosk." 

"All these things are interesting, in a way. Even the littlebag, colored and patterned the way it is. I feel a little guiltyto be so ungrateful for them. It's just—Harvey had never givenme gifts before. Not even cards on my birthday. And then, suddenly, to give me such strange things, which make me feelso odd...." 

"What did he suggest you do with them?" Makr Avehl's voice had a curious flatness, almost a repressed distaste, asthough he smelled something rotten but was too polite to sayanything about it.

"When he gave me the picture of the fish and the birds, hetold me to hang it on the wall in my bedroom—he hadn't been here, but I told him I had a one bedroom apartment. Then, later, when he gave me the other one, he said to hang it in theliving room. The other things were to be put on my desk or bookshelves. Of course, since he hadn't been here, he didn't really know what it's like...."

"It's a very pleasant apartment," he commented, lookingabout him as he packed the things back into the Box. "You've done most of it yourself, haven't you?"

"How did you know? Does it look that amateurish?"

"Not in that sense. Amateur in the sense of one who loves something, yes. I was a student in this country for a while,and I know what the usual kind of apartments available tostudents are like. They are not like this."

She flushed. "I guess I do love it. I hadn't had any placeof my own since Clou—since Mother died. It was important to me." 

"You started to call her something else."

"Just—a kind of fairy tale name." Ordinarily, Marianne didnot confide in people, certainly not on short acquaintance, butthe focused, intent quality in his interest wiped away her reticence. "I always called her Cloud-haired mama, and she calledme Mist Princess. It was only a kind of story telling, roleplaying, I guess. We were alone a lot of the time. Papa wasaway. Harvey was at school, mostly. Lately I have rememberedthat she was only four or five years older than I am now, and 

yet I still feel like such a child most of the time. So—she wasn't too old for fairy tales, even then.""Ah. But despite your enjoyment of fairy tales, you do notlike the pictures and these little carvings.""I don't. They make me feel—oh, slimy. Does that makesense to you? I felt it, but didn't understand it."

"Oh, yes." Flat voice. "It makes sense. Of a kind. Wouldyou mind terribly if I took these away with me? I'll returnthem, or something like them. Something you'll be more comfortable with. Since your brother does not visit you, he isunlikely to care. The sense of his gifts will be maintained."He closed the Box firmly on its contents. "Now, what are wegoing to do about the weekend?"

She smiled, made a little, helpless gesture. "I don't want to seem stubborn or childish, really, but I think it might bebetter if I didn't accept your invitation."

"That makes me sad. It's obvious to me that I've made a miscalculation. Tahiti and I are old adversaries, and her I invited out of bravado. My own sister, Ellat, will be peeved with me. She often tells me my desire for bravura effect will getme in trouble, and she is often right. Whenever I am full of pride, I am brought low. What is your proverb—Pride goethbefore a fall? Well, so I am fallen upon grievous times. BecauseI had invited her, I invited him, because I wanted you. I willnow have a guest I did not much want in the place of one Ihad very much wanted, for I know you would enjoy it. Can Ibeg you? Importune you?"

Curiosity and apprehension were strangely mingled, and yether habitual caution could not be so easily overcome. The thought of spending a weekend in Harvey's company, amongstrangers. Strangers. She reminded herself firmly that the mansitting so intimately opposite her was a stranger. Charming, yes. So could Harvey be. Seemingly interested in her as areality, not merely as an adjunct to himself—but then, howcould one tell? "I—I'd like to think about it. Perhaps I couldgive you an answer later in the week?"

He had the courtesy to look disappointed but not accusingand to convey by a tilted smile that he knew the difference."Of course you may. And you must not feel any pressure ofcourtesy to agree if it will make you more uncomfortable than the pleasure the visit might afford you. Everything is a balance,isn't that so?" He stood up, shifted his shoulders as thoughreadying them for some weighty burden, toed the box at his feet. 

"Now, there are things I must do. We do have a dinner datetomorrow, and I will return your belongings then. Someone told me of a place nearby where there is a native delicacyserved. Something called a soft crab?"

"Soft-shelled crabs," she laughed. "You must mean Willard's. It's famous all up and down the coast."

"I shall find them very strange and quite edible," he announced. "Until tomorrow." At the door he touched her cheek with his lips, no more than an avuncular caress, a kind ofparent to child kiss. Her skin flinched away from him, her face flamed, and she gave thanks for the darkness of the hall andfor the fact that he picked up the Box and left, not turning tolook back at her as she shut the door between them. 

She did not see him set the Box down on the stair and wipehis hands fastidiously on his handkerchief. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and he shook his head, mouth working, as thoughto spit away some foul taste. For a moment, when he had opened the Box, he had felt as though astray in nightmare. Onedid not expect to smell such corruption in the pleasant apartmentof an innocent—oh, yes, make no mistake about that—innocent young woman. Yet he had smelled it, tasted it. Makr Avehl Zahmani had some experience with wickedness. As a leader of his people, it was part of his duty to diagnose eviland protect against it. What he felt rising from the Box had a skulking obscenity of purpose, a stench of decay. His face sheened with sweat at the self-control it took to lift the Box and carry it. He drew a pen from his pocket, used it to jot aquick shorthand of symbols and letters on each of the six facesof the Box. Then he picked it up once more, a bit more easily, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at the door at thetop of the stairs. 

Behind that door, Marianne was conscious of nothing butshame and fear, shame at the feel of hard nipples pressing against her blouse, shame at the brooding, liquid heat in hergroin, fear at the greedy demands of a desire which had ambushed her out of nowhere and was swallowing her into some 

endless gut of hungry sensation.

She clung to the door, cringing under a lash of memory.There had been Cloud-haired mama dead in the next room, cold and white and forever gone. How did she die, Marianne had demanded, over and over. She was young! She wasn'tsick! How could she have died? There had been no answers, not from Papa Zahmani, not from Harvey who had only lookedat her strangely, expressionlessly, as though he did not knowher. There had been whispering, shouts from behind closeddoors, Dr. Brown saying, "I would have said she died of suffocation, Haurvatat. I can't explain it. I don't know why. Sometimes hearts justfail." And Marianne crying, crying endlessly,finally seeking Harvey out and throwing herself into his arms in the late, dark night.... And then had come the frighteningthing. And after the housekeeper had come in and interruptedhim, he had hissed at her, "Bitch princess. You're as soft andusable as your mad mama was...."

She leaned against the door, digging her nails into her palms."I'm not like that!" she screamed at herself silently. "I'm notlike that at all." Demon voices in her mind hissed, "Soft, usable, bitch!" An obscene heat enveloped her, and she wasback in the old house, returned to Harvey's holding her, touching her, starting to undress her with fingers busy under herclothes, and herself responding to him in a kind of dazed frenzywhich had no thought in it, no perception except of a hoped-for forgetfulness, a much desired unconsciousness. And thenhe had been interrupted, and the shame had come, the shame ofhis using Mama's name, defiling her death, defiling her child— and Mama's child involved in the defilement, cooperating in it."No, no, no," she screamed now as she had then. "I am not like that. Mama wasn't like that. I won't, won't, won't!"

Somewhere inside herself she found the calmer voices. "This man is not Harvey. This man is someone else. He has Harvey'sface, but he has not Harvey's sins. He is attractive, you areattracted, but this hot shame is only memory, Marianne. It isnot now, not real, only memory. And you, Marianne, you are well enough alone. So. Stay alone, Marianne, and do not remember that time. And perhaps, someday, you will find it is forgotten."

She took her chastened self into the shower and then out 

for a long, exhausting walk to weary even her tireless brain,a brain which kept trying by an exercise of pure persistence tomake her wounds heal by cutting them deeper. For, of course,among all the other monsters was the monster of guilt, guilt which said that she herself had been responsible, not the grownman but herself, the child, the woman who should have known better, for are not women supposed to know better? And if the twelve-year-old Marianne did not know better, then best forthe twenty-five-year-old Marianne to work in the quiet libraryand attend the endless classes and have no male friends at all, for she, too, might not know better if put to the test. She wouldnot go for the weekend, would not allow this feeling to takehold of her, would not allow her calm to be destroyed. 

"Of course," her internal self reminded her, "you are notalways so calm, Marianne. Sometimes in the deep night, youwaken. Sometimes when the sheets are sensuously soft againstyour newly bathed skin. Sometimes in the midst of a TV show,when the young man and the young woman look at each otherin that way—that way—then you are not so calm."

"Begone," she said wearily. "Burned, buried, begone." Usually the litany or the long walk let her sleep, but tonight shelay wakeful, dozing from time to time only to start awake again, until she gave up at last and took two of the little red pills Dr.Brown had given her. Her sleep was dark, dreamless, empty,and when morning came she was able to convince herself thatthe night's turmoil had been unreal and that she had not beenmired in it at all. 

She could not feel anticipation for the evening. Each timeshe thought of it, it loomed at the end of her day like a roadmarker, pointing to some unknown destination, evoking an apprehension not so much for the destination itself as for theunfamiliar and possibly tedious journey it would take to reachit. She was familiar with the feeling, one which had served inthe past to limit her society to the few, the necessary, and shefelt ashamed of it without in any way being able to defeat it.Only when she came into her apartment at the end of the dayto see the pot of crocuses on the window seat and feel theabsence of the Box did she begin to feel a slight warming, a willingness to be graceful within the confines of her appre

tension—perhaps even a willingness to move outside it towardpleasure if she could find a way.

"So, Marianne," she instructed herself, "you will not givehim a dinner partner to shame him. He has done nothing at allto deserve that." It was a sense of pride which took her throughthe routines of bam and makeup, hairdress and clothing, andfinally to the examination of self in the mirror. The dress hadbelonged to her mother, a simple, timeless gather of flowingsilk, jade green in one light, twilight blue in another, utterlyplain. The only dressy clothes she had were things salvagedfrom among Cloud-haired mama's things, trunks Papa had putin storage in her name, "Because you may want them someday,or may simply want to have them to remember her by." Somehad been too fashionable then to be useful now, but there were a few things like this—blouses and shirts, ageless skirts, atopcoat which might have been illustrated in the morning paper,a wonderful sweep of lacy wool stole which would serve as awrap. The only clothes Marianne had purchased in the last fouryears had been underwear and two pairs of shoes. Everythingelse was left over from undergraduate days or made over fromMama's trunks. If it came to a choice between clothing andthe tiles for the kitchen.... She smiled. There was no choice. 

She looked good, she decided. Not marvelous or gloriousor glamorous, but good. Clean, neat, attractive, and by nomeans shabby. So.

Turning then from the mirror, she saw the line of light rundown the silk from the curve of her breast, the flush of red mounting to her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tugged thesoftly rounded neckline a little higher on her shoulders. She hadn't chosen this dress to be... hadn't... had. "Didn't," she said defiantly. "Did not." She reached for the closet door to pick something thicker, less clinging, less...

Too late. She heard him coming up the stairs, the firm knockon the door. Put the best face on it possible.

He made it no easier for her. He stood back, obviouslyadmiring her, his eyes lighting up. "You look wonderful, a water nymph—what is it? A naiad. The color suits you. It makes you glow as though you had candles lit inside." He smiled, not knowing that the emotion he had roused in her was a quiet anger, at him, at herself. "I've brought your box back."

Her mood of acceptance was waning, but he gave her notime to fret, placing the box on the table and opening it as hetalked. "One Escher print," he said, busy unpacking. "One print of a Delvaux painting. One Eskimo carving, one Bantucarving, one bit of oriental charmery. One medicine pouch."He set them out for her as she stared. 

The Escher print was of a fish rising to the top of still water where leaves rested on the ripples and bare trees laid theirshattered reflections. The Delvaux painting was of two youngwomen walking in a well-lit street, clothed in high-neckedwhite dresses, lamps all about, a nearby house streaming withlight from windows and doors. The Eskimo carving was of abird, a confluence of curving lines which said nest, rest, peace.The ebony carving was of a happy frog, and the oriental bitwas of two mice chewing their way through a nut. He laid amedicine pouch beside the pot of crocuses, a bit of fluffy ermine skin, eagle feathers tied to it with turquoise beads and bits ofcoral. "American Indian," he said. "How does this collection of things suit you?" 

She considered them. Each of them separately was pleasant,unremarkable. Together—together they seemed to reach toward her with welcoming arms. "Safe," she offered at last. "Everything seems very natural and contented."

"I like the young women in the Delvaux painting." He made a vast, smoothing gesture, as though wiping away the darkness."Busy at lighting up their world. Light is a very powerful symbol in our religion, of course." He stood back from the picture and admired it. "Ah! I meant to hang them for you,but it will have to be when we return. Our reservation is for eight o'clock, and if we make a careful hurry, we will get thereon time. The maitre d' to whom I spoke was most forthright.We must be on time or our table will be given away to thoseless foresighted but more prompt. Nothing would sway him,not even appeals to justice and the American Way. So. Yourwrap? Lovely. Your purse? That is all you are carrying? Well,the young are the only ones who may travel so unencumbered.We go." 

She had no opportunity to tell him he need not hang the pictures, no opportunity to change her dress, no time to remember she had wanted to change it. She was swept down thestairs—past Mrs. Winesap in the entryway, pretending to bemuch involved with her mailbox—and into the car before she could think of anything, already laughing somewhat helplesslyat his nonsense. 

"Most cars available for rent," he announced, shutting herdoor, "are too large to be amusing or too small to be safe. I will not, however, join nine-tenths of your countrymen in thedaily game they play with their lives. To meet my sense ofprudence, you are required to ride in some ostentatious luxury,though I know you would prefer simplicity, being the kind ofperson you obviously are."

She sank back into the seat, surrounded by velvet surfacesand leather smell. "I didn't know one could rent cars like this." 

"One cannot," he said with some satisfaction. "However, one can appear to be a potential buyer, with unimpeachablereferences, of course, thus gaining the temporary ownershipof such a vehicle. One may even be a potential buyer, thoughI am uncertain whether the roads of Alphenlicht are wide enoughfor such extravagance."

"You do have roads?" she asked in wide-eyed innocence. 

"You mock. Quite rightly. You will remember, however, that I told you we are beginning to build such things. We haveeven recently completed a hydroelectric plant, and there is anAlphenlicht radio station by which means the people may beinformed of matters of mutual interest. Avalanche warnings.Things of that kind." He negotiated a tricky turn at the avenuewith casual mastery, darting up the entrance ramp to fit thembetween two hurtling truck behemoths without seeming to notice he had done so. Marianne, who had braked in reflex, leaned back and relaxed. He was not going to kill them both. So muchwas obvious. "I rather like it," he purred, patting the dashboardwith proprietary interest. "Do you think it appropriate for a Prime Minister?" 

She considered this judiciously. "Well, it is a little ostentatious. But a Prime Minister should be, at least a little." 

"It will acquire importance when Aghrehond drives it. Aghrehond does my driving; he is also my friend, first factotum of the republic, and the guardian Nestor of my youth. He will be enormously pleased with this machine. It will contribute tohis already overpowering dignity."

"You're going to buy it, then?"

He cocked his head, considering. "If it continues to behavewell. Have you noticed the tendency of some things to behavewell at first, as though knowing they are on trial, only to turnrecalcitrant and balky when they believe they have been accepted?"

Marianne flushed in the darkness. He had not been speakingof her, but she applied his words to her own case. She had behaved well when they had first met, an interesting experience, a previously unknown relative, no troubling overtones,and she had felt free to be herself. Now she knew she was turning balky, for good reason, but he would not know that.Well, one could be balky without letting it appear on the surface. She commanded herself to be charming. He would find her charming. Her citadel might keep its portcullis down, butshe would not be obvious about it. So she seduced herself with promises and turned her attention back to him with a newlykindled radiance. 

"I had a typewriter like that once," she said. "The only timeit ever worked was in the repair shop where I bought it, andin the repair shop when I took it back—every time I took itback." 

He laughed. "I had a Jaguar XKE—you know the one? Ithas twelve cylinders and a complexity of electrical systembeside which the space probes are models of simplicity. Whenever it went more than fifty kilometers from the garage whereits mechanic waited, it had an electrical tantrum and stoppedrunning. It was so very pretty, even standing still—which iswhat it mostly did—that I left it for a very long time in thegarage, simply to look at it now and then. However, since ithad not been purchased as sculpture, it seemed unwise to continue giving it house room. I then put a curse upon the engineers who had designed it, and British Leyland went bankrupt soonthereafter." 

"You claim responsibility for that?" she asked, uncertainwhether he was serious or not. "Absolutely." His voice was utterly serious. Then he turned 

and she saw his eyes. "Marianne, you are a good audience formy silliness. You are young enough almost to believe me."

"No," she protested. "I didn't, really."

"No," he echoed, "you almost did." Then his voice changed."I could have done it, Marianne. A Magus could do such a thing. But it would be self-indulgent, and a Magus does notbuild his powers—or even retain them—by being self-indulgent. Those who do so go by other names." 

She was surprised at this abrupt change of tone, evidencethat something was on his mind other than the evening. However, he gave her no time to brood over it, but reached acrossto the glove compartment to tug out a map which he droppedinto her lap, stroking her knee with his hand. "Here, see if youcan find where we are, and then tell me the exit number. I looked it up this afternoon, but I have forgotten it." His voicewas a caress, as his touch had been, and she drew her stole around her, over her knees and thighs, all too aware of theplace his hand had touched. Face flaming, she bent over themap, not noticing he had leaned to one side to see her face inthe rear view mirror. He smiled, a smile of pleasure, but withsomething hungry and predatory in it. 

She searched the map for some time, calming herself withit. When she could trace their route, she found the exit number for him. "I've only been there once before," she said. "An oldfriend of my father's invited me to dinner there with his wifeand daughter."

"Were they good people? Did you enjoy it?"

"I did. Yes. They had known my parents, and that was nice.My parents were wonderful people, and I like to rememberthem..." 

"Happily," he suggested. "You like to remember them happily."

"That's it. I usually have to remember them in some context of money or property because of Harvey, you know. And thatisn't the same. It's certainly not happy."

"Your affairs were left in his hands, you said."

"I was only a schoolgirl. My mother's estate—rather a bigone, from her father—was in papa's hands during his lifetime,but then it came to me. Except Harvey was executor. Oh, there'ssome man in a bank in Boston, and an attorney I've never 

seen, but Harvey is really the one who says yes or no. Theothers simply do what he tells them.""Ah," said Makr Avehl, in a strange voice. "They simply ... give consent." 

"Yes. And whenever Harvey says anything, he always saysit is what Papa would have wanted. Which means it is what Harvey wants." She fell silent, flushing. "I feel very disloyal, talking about him this way."

Makr Avehl, thinking of the contents of the box he hadtaken from her apartment, contented himself with silence. At that moment the hungry, predatory part of him withdrew, anda more thoughtful self examined Marianne's face with a quick,sideways look. "Blood is not always thicker than water, Marianne. Only when the ties of blood are equally strong on bothsides is there any true kinship. Kinship can never be a one-way thing."

"That's what Mrs. Winesap says. She says if I don't likehim, I simply don't like him, and I shouldn't feel guilty about that." 

"I couldn't agree more. Mrs. Winesap is an eminently sensible woman. Also, she has your welfare at heart, and thatmakes her kin to you in a real way." He swung the car ontothe exit ramp, then beneath the highway and onto a shore-bound road between budding trees fretted against the dusk.Lights faded around them, dwindling from hectic commercialto amber residential, soft among the knotted branches. It was quiet in the car, all traffic left behind them. Reflected in the waters of a little bay was the discreet sign in pink neon, "Willard's." He parked the car and looked quickly at his watch."On time. There will be no excuse to have given our table toanyone else."

He took her from the car and into the place by her elbow,gently held. Their table was waiting, and Marianne gained theimpression it would have been waiting had they not arriveduntil midnight. Makr Avehl waved the maitre d' away andseated her himself, his hands lingering on her shoulders as hearranged the stole on the back of her chair. She resolutely focused herself on the reflections in the water, on the candlelit interior, on anything else.

When he had seated himself across from her, he said, "Shall we dispense with the usually obligatory cocktail? Do youknow the origin of the word? It dates, I am told, from the early years of the nineteenth century in New Orleans where cognac was mixed with bitters using an old-style egg cup—called a coquetier—to measure the ingredients. From cah-cuh-tyay tocock-tay to cock-tail would have required only the slovenly enunciation of a half generation. Does that interest you? Not greatly." He grinned at her and pretended an interest in themenu. The meal had already been arranged for.

When he had ordered for both of them, he leaned back and stared around him, a little arrogantly. "This ordering for one'sguest is no longer an American custom, I know. But it is a custom I enjoy. So I command outrageous viands from kitchensacross the breadth of the world if only to see how my companions will approach them. If what I have ordered does notappeal to you, now is the time to chastise me." 

"It sounds delicious," she said. "I don't mind at all. It's precisely what Papa always did." 

"And Harvey?"

"I've never eaten in public with Harvey," she said stiffly."I imagine he would be more... more showy about it." 

"I can hear him now," said Makr Avehl, putting on a pompous expression. " "The lady will have breaded cockscomb withthe sauce of infant eel.' Then an aside to his companion: 'You'lllove it, Juliet. I remember having it in Paris, during the International Conference of the Institute of Anthropology.' Like that?" 

"Like that," she agreed. "And then he'd watch her like a hawk to be sure she pretended to enjoy it.""Which she would do?" He nodded at the hovering wine steward. "Which they seem to do," she agreed. "I've never been ableto figure out why."

Across the table from her, he glittered with gentle laughter.The explosion of light seemed so real that Marianne actuallyblinked to avoid being blinded, then opened her eyes wide,astonished at her own childishness. It was only the blaze of something flambe' behind him, being made a great show of in a chafing dish. An obsequious waiter slipped behind her chair to place two additional wine glasses beside her plate, 

while the wine steward poured an inch of ruby light into MakrAvehl's glass. He sipped it, nodded, and Marianne's own glassdropped red jewels of light onto the table cloth.

She sipped, smiled, sipped again. It had been a long timesince she had had good wine. She had drunk it as a child, atPapa's side, learning to taste. Then she had gone away toschool, and there had been no wine then or since. Her slender budget would not stretch to such indulgence, and she sippedagain, lost in a haze of happy memory. A plate of pate appearedbefore her, almost magically, smelling succulently of herbs andshallots. She began to eat hungrily, not noticing his expressionas he watched her. It was the expression of a lion about to pounce.

But behind that expression a dialogue had begun, a familiardialogue to Makr Avehl, one between the man and the Magus,with a word or two from that entity he called "the intruder."It began with the man saying, "I want this woman!" He said it impatiently. The man did not equivocate. He did not apologize.

"You will conduct yourself appropriately," replied the Magus. 'This is a kinswoman. Even if she were not, there areindulgences inappropriate to a Magus!"

And another voice, sibilant, hissing, "This is a complicationwe do not need at this time. This is foolishness, kinswoman or not. Be done." 

"She is fair," sang the man to himself, not listening to thevoices. The wine was diluting their message, blurring theiradvice. "Fair. Lithe and lovely, dark of hair and pale of skin,curved as a warrior's bow is curved, straight as his arrow isstraight. A warrior's trophy! A warrior's prize!"

"A brigand's booty. A robber's spoils," threatened the Magus.

"A poacher's trap," hissed the voice of dissent.

"A lover's prize," the man amended, bending over his platein a sudden access of warmth. He had not meant to say that.He had not used the word to himself for almost twenty years,not since he was nineteen and thought himself dying becausesomeone else had died, died untimely, unforgiveably. He shutdown the voices, apprehensive of the end of their colloquy.The food gave him something else to think about, but it led 

him into the trap once more. He looked up to see Marianne's

lips curved to accept the edge of the glass, curved as though

in a kiss, and his hands trembled. 

"Come now, Makr Avehl," he said to himself. "You are not 

a schoolboy any longer. You are not a lascivious youth, carried

willy-nilly on naive curiosity's back, like Europa on the bull,

tormented by lust into abandonment of all sense. Come, come.

Let us talk of something else."

"Did you really like the pictures I brought you?" he asked,

seeing a well-trained hand slip the empty plate away from

before him to replace it with another, noticing also that Mari

anne's glass was being refilled. His own was almost untouched.

She did not answer at once, being occupied with napkin and 

glass. "That was duck," she said happily. "Lovely duck. All

bits and pieces with swadges of truffle. I didn't know Willard's. was capable of that...."

He did not tell her that the pate had been provided earlier,

that Willard's was not capable of that, that no restaurant within

five hundred miles was capable of that except the one which

had provided the pate to his order. "The pictures?" he prompted.

"The pictures. Well, the one of the fish is marvelous. One 

has a sense of the fish rising, and because the air above and

the water below are all one, it is almost as though it could go

on rising upward, forever. Like a balloon."

Makr Avehl, who had not thought of this, was much taken

with the feeling. "Exaltation?" 

"Yes. The feeling that one could go on up and up forever,

but one would not need to. The surface is very nice, too. Well,

I liked that one. The other one was more difficult. The young

women are in the street, alone, but they are not threatened at

all. There are lights around, in the house—which must be the 

house they live in—where people are waiting for them. Noth

ing horrible is coming. It's a special evening, and the girls are

setting lights along the streets. They do that in Mexico, don't

they? Set lights along the streets? Candles, in bags of sand? A

kind of ritual in which the safe, lighted way is shown, I think.

And that's the way it feels, a safe, lighted way."

"Luminous," he suggested.

She considered this over a spoonful of lobster bisque, turn

ing the idea with the other flavors on her tongue. "Not so much 

luminous as illuminated. Things which could be threatening orfrightening are lighted up, made harmless, perhaps even shownto be attractive. That's what one wants, after all, to have the monsters shown to be nothing but paper cutouts, or shadows,or humped bushes which the light will show to be full offlowers." 

He nodded. "It's unfortunate the other group of things hadsuch an unpleasant feel to it. Certain groupings can have thatquality of foreboding or threat. I remember a particular placein the forest of Alphenlicht, trees, stones, some large leafed plants with waxy blooms. Taken individually, the trees areonly trees. The stones are interesting shapes, taken each byeach, and the plants are found in many boggy parts of themountains. Taken as a whole, however, this particular clearingamong the stones with the trees brooding above has a qualityof menace." 

He shook his head, keeping to himself the question as towhat kind of knowledge or study would have stimulated aperson—any person—to have chosen the particular group ofthings he had found in the box. The knowledge was one matterbut, in addition, what motivation would one have had? These questions were not merely interesting but compelling. He wasmost curious about the sly vileness in which he had given herthe things one at a time, singly, so that her spirit would be ledto accept them individually rather than take warning at thecumulative effect. 

Nonetheless, she had taken warning. Which told him something more about her to make his lustful self pause. There washeritage here, the heritage of the Magi. "With whom," advisedthe Magus within, "it is wise not to trifle."

He pursued this question. "You didn't like the things Harveygave you. Did you tell me why?"

She shrugged, spooning up the last of her bisque, sorrythere was not more of it, so relaxed by the wine that she didnot mind answering. "They made me feel slimy. Dirty. Not clean dirt, but sewer dirt. I've never been in a sewer, but I can imagine." She put her spoon down with regret. "The naked girl was the worst. That one made me angry. She was so... sacrificial." 

"Anger," he mused, nodding once more to the hovering waiter. "I have often wondered why anger is considered bysome Western religions to be a sin. It is such a marvelous protection against evil." He examined her face, thinking of anold proverb of his people, often used to define perspicacity ofa certain type: He can recognize the devil by his breathing. He thought it interesting that Marianne could recognize the devilby its breathing, and he wondered who the devil was. Well,he should not be too quick to identify.

"The reason you found them unpleasant probably doesn't matter. We've taken care of it. It's likely that your brotherwould not even know the difference between the things he gaveyou and the substitutions I have made. He would undoubtedlybe distressed to learn he had caused you a moment's apprehension. There is certainly no reason to mention it to him."

Marianne had had no intention of mentioning it. "You thinkI felt as I did about the things merely because Harvey gavethem to me? That seems a little simplistic."

"It's probably as good an explanation as we are going toget." He laughed with a good pretense of humor, watching asthe second set of wine glasses were refilled. They would continue with the Trockenbeerenauslese until dessert. He had chosen it for her, thinking she would prefer it, and was nowregretful that he had not realized she would appreciate something better. Still, it was a very fine wine, if not a preeminentone, and her glass was being refilled for the third time. Her face was flushed and happy, and she played idly with her fork,waiting for the salad. He went on, putting an end to the subject,"I suggest any further presents from your half brother be putin storage somewhere. Often we wish to be exorcised of demonswe ourselves have allowed house room. That is an Alphenlicht saying, one my sister is very fond of."

"I suppose she means demons of memory," said Mariannein an untroubled voice. "Of guilt, of vengeance. Things we dwell on instead of forgetting." In that moment, she felt she would not be bothered by such things again.

He cursed at himself, not letting it show. The box had beenno minor assault. She should be warned. Who was he to giveher these platitudes instead of the harsh warning which wasprobably required? If he were to be true to his own conscience,he would explore the root of that corruption, find the cause, 

help her arrange a defense against it rather than deal her a fewproverbs to placate her sense of danger. However, there wasno way to do that without frightening her, and tonight was not the time, not the place, not with her glowing face across fromhim, candlelit, soft and accepting. When he knew her a little better—when he found out who was responsible. He did not believe it was her brother. The shallow, puffed-up ego which had looked at him out of Harvey S. Zahmani's eyes would nothave been capable of the singleminded study necessary to selectthose individual gifts to make up such a synergistic power ofevil. Well. It would wait. He would not destroy her pleasure tonight.

Neither would he destroy his own planned pleasure for theweekend. He returned to his purpose.

"Do you ride, Marianne?"

"It was my passion once, if twelve-year-old girls may beallowed to have passions. I had a wonderful horse, Rustam. Iloved him above all things. When he was sold, after Papa died,I cried for days. I never could tell it if was for Papa, or forRustam. I think it was for Rustam, though. I had already criedfor Papa."

"That was at your home?"

"Yes." She picked at the edges of her salad, a spiraling rosette of unfamiliar vegetables, intricately arranged. "I was just learning to jump. Rustam already knew how, of course, and he took great care to keep me on his back. I was alwaysafraid I was in his way, hindering him."

"Is it something you want to do again someday?""Something I dream about. I would love to ride again, if I haven't forgotten how.""There is some particular affinity, I am told, between adolescent girls and horses. Some girls, I should say."

"Some, yes. I was very conscious of being... well, whatcan one say? Not weaker, exactly, but less able to force myselfupon the unimpressionable world. Less able, that is, than Papa,or Harvey. Mama didn't seem to care. There were things themen did which I simply couldn't understand. And yet, whenI rode Rustam, the barriers were gone. I felt I could go anywhere, through anything, over anything. That I would be carried, as on wings." 

The look she turned on him was full of such adoring memorythat he clenched both fists in his lap, fighting down the urgeto make some poetic outburst: "Oh, I would be your steed,lady. I would carry you to such places you have not dreamedof...." Instead, he hid his face behind his napkin, managedto say something in a half-choked voice about Pegasus, leavingthe poetry unsaid though the words sang in him like the after-sound of a plucked string, reverberating, summoning sympathetic vibrations from his loins. 

"I asked," he said in a voice deliberately dry, "because thehouse which we have leased while we are in the country hasattached to it an excellent stable. The people who own it arevacationing in the Far East, and they left us in complete possession of their own riding horses—that is, once they learnedthat we are not barbarians." He choked back a laugh, remembering the oblique correspondence which had finally establishedthis fact to the satisfaction of the Van Horsts. "I do not want you to miss the opportunity to ride with us this weekend,Marianne. I do not want to miss the opportunity to ride with you. I have invited other people, good friends, people youwould enjoy. You would not need to be in the company of yourbrother at all. I will beg you, importune you, please. Be myguest."

She could not refuse him. Whether it was the wine, or the thought of the horses, or the candlelight, or his own face, sofull of an expression which she refused to read but could notdeny, she murmured, "If you're quite sure it won't be awkward for you if Harvey behaves oddly toward me. Perhaps he won't.I know I'm a little silly about him, sometimes."

"Do you think he will be unpleasant company for my otherguests?""He can be charming," she said offhandedly. "I think he is only really unpleasant to me."

"Do you know why?"

She flushed, a quick flowing of red from brow to chin whichsuffused her face with tension. He saw it, snarled at himself for walking with such heavy feet where he did not know theway, did not give her time to reply.

"Ah, here come the crabs. Now we shall see if this is indeed a delicacy or merely one of those regional eccentricities which litter the pathways of a true gourmet."

"Gourmand," she said, relieved that the subject had been changed. "I think a gourmet would not eat soft-shelled crab.They are supposed to be an addictive indulgence, like popcorn."

"I wasn't warned," he said in mock horror. 

"Be warned. I will fight you for them."

Makr Avehl could not have said whether he liked the dish 

or not. He ate it. More of it than he would have eaten if alone. He drank little wine, afraid of it for the first time in his life, of what he might say unwarily, having already said the wrongthing several times over, afraid of what he might do that wouldfrighten his quarry.

"Quarry?" boomed the Magus, deep inside. "I warn youagain, Makr Avehl. Kinswoman." He heard it as an echo of her own voice, "Be warned." 

Marianne had not expected the wine, was not guarded againstit, did not notice as it flowed around the controls she had set upon herself, washed away the little dikes and walls of theresolutions she had made, let her forget it was to have beenan evening of politeness only, without future, without overtones. She felt herself beginning to glitter, did nothing at all to stop it, simply let it go on as though she were twelve oncemore, at the dinner table with Cloud-haired mama and Papaand their guests, full of happy questions and reasonably politebehavior, ready to be charmed and charming. 'Tell me aboutAlphenlicht," she demanded. "All about it. Not the politics,but how it smells and tastes. What it is like to live there." 

"Shall I be scholarly and give you the history? Or do youwant a travelogue?" Gods but she is beautiful. In this light, her skin is like pearl.

"Don't tell me how it got that way. Just tell me how it is." She licked her lips un-self-consciously, and he felt them on hisown. He turned to look out the window and summon his wits. 

"Well, then. Alphenlicht is a small country. You know that.It is a mountainous one. There is no capital, as such. Instead,there are many small towns and villages gathered around thefortresses built by our ancestors, many of them on the sites ofolder fortresses built by the Urartians centuries before. Hilltopfortresses, mostly, with high stone walls topped by ragged battlements. They march along the flanks and edges of the 

mountains as though they had been built by nature rather thanby man, gray and lichened, looking as old as forever. 

"Outside the walls, the towns straggle down the hillsides,narrow streets winding among clumps of walled buildings, half stable, part barn, part dwelling. We came from Median stock,remember. The Medes could never do without horses, and their houses were always surrounded by stableyards."

"Hies," commented Marianne. "There would be lots of flies." 

"No," he objected. "We are not primitive. The litter from our stables enriches our farmland. Then, too, there is a constant smoky wind in Alphenlicht. We say it is possible to stand onthe southern border of our country and know what is beingcooked for supper on the northern edge. You asked what thecountry smells like, and that is it. Woodsmoke, as I have smelledhere in autumn when the leaves are being burned; a smell asnostalgic among men as any I know of. A primitive smell,evoking the campfires of our most ancient ancestors." He thoughtabout this, knowing it for a new-old truth.

"Our houses are of stone, for the most part. We are selfconsciously protective about our traditions, so we have a fondness still for glazed tile and many wooden pillars supportingornate, carved capitals, often in the shapes of horses or bullsor mythical beasts. There is plaster over the stone, making therooms white. The walls are thick, both for winter warmth and for summer cool, so windows are set deep and covered withwood screens which break the light, throwing a lace of shadowinto our rooms. Floors are of stone for summer cool, but in winter we cover them with rugs, mostly from Turkey or Iran.Our people have never been great rug makers. 

"Ceilings are often vaulted, with wind scoops at the ends,to bring in the summer winds. In winter we cover them with stout shutters which seldom fit as well as they should. We sayof an oddly assorted couple that they fit like scoop shutters,meaning that they do not..." He fell silent, musing, seeinghis homeland through her eyes and his own words, as though newly.

"What do you eat?" she asked, taking the last bite of herfinal crab. "I am not hungry any longer, but I love to hearabout food." 

"Lamb and mutton. Chicken. Wild game. I have a particular 

fondness for wild fowl. Then, let me see, there are all the usual vegetables and grains. There are sheltered orchards along thefoot of the snows where we grow apricots and peaches. We have berries and apples. There are lemon and orange trees inthe conservatory at the Residence, but most citrus fruits areimported. We are able to import what we need, buying withthe gems from our mines."

"But no soft-shelled crab," she mourned. "No fish." "Indeed, fish. Trout from our streams and pools. For heaven's sake, Marianne. How can you talk about food?""What did you order for dessert?" she asked, finishing her wine. 

He nodded to the waiter once more. "Crepes, into whichwill be put slivers of miraculously creamy cheese from theAlphenlicht mountains, served with a sauce of fresh raspberriesflamed in Himbeergeist and doused with raspberry syrup."

"That sounds lovely." She sighed in anticipation.

"It is lovely." He made a wry mouth, mimed exasperation."Also unavailable here. We're having an orange souffle which is available here, which has been recommended by severalpeople with ordinary, people-type appetites. Try a little of this sweet wine. It has a smell of mangoes, or so they say. I like the aroma, but I confess that the similarity escapes me." 

They finished the meal with inconsequential talk, togetherwith more wine, with brandy. They had been at the table foralmost four hours when they left, coming out into a chilly,clear evening with a gibbous moon rising above the bay tosend long, broken ladders of light across the water. 

"I am at the middle of the whole world," Marianne hummed. "See how all the lights come to me."

They stood at the center of the radiating lights, town lights on the point stretching to the north and east, island lights fromsmall, clustered prominences to the east and south, the lightof the moon. 

"If you can pull yourself out of the center of things," he said tenderly, "I'll take you home."

The drive back was almost silent. Marianne was deeplycontent, more than a little drunk without knowing it, warmedby the wine, unsuspecting of danger. As for him, he was noless moved than he had been hours earlier, but that early im

petuous anticipation had turned to something deeper and morebittersweet, something like the pain of a mortal wound gainedin honorable battle by a fanatical warrior. Heaven was guaranteed to such a sufferer, but a kind of death was the onlygateway. "Death of what?" he fretted, "of what? I have neverbeen one to attach great esoteric significance to such matters!"He refused to answer his own question. Such metaphors weremerely the results of wine-loquacity, a kind of symbolic babble.He concentrated on driving.

When they arrived, he took her to the door and entered afterher, saying "I'll hang those pictures before I leave you. No! Don't object, Marianne. I want to do it," riding over her weakprotests to come close to her, making a long business of thestick-on hangers, standing back to see whether the pictureswere straight, putting them where those others had been meantto go, one in her living room, the other by her bed. And shethere, watching, bemused, almost unconscious, eyes fixed onthe picture of the maidens setting out their lights, stroking herown face with the fluffy eagle feather tassle of the medicinebag he had brought her, as a child might stroke its face withthe comer of a loved blanket, her whole expression dreamyand remote as though she merely looked in on mis present placefrom some distant and infinitely superior existence. Then sheturned to him, and her eyes were aware, and desirous, andsoft.... 

He groaned, the man part breaking through his self-imposedbarriers, groaned and took her into his arms, putting his mouthon hers, feeling her half-surprise, then the glorious liquid warmthof her pressed against him in all that silken flow as she returnedthe kiss. He dropped his lips to the hollow of her throat, heardher gasp as he pressed the silk away with his mouth to followthe swelling curve of her breast....

And heard her cry as from some great distance, "Oh... not that way... chaos will win... all my battles lost.... Oh, tomorrow I will want to die." 

The words fell like ice, immediately chilling, making acrystalline shell into which he recoiled, immobilized, the Magus within him seeing her face, the mouth drawn up into arictus which could equally have been passion or pain, so evenlyand indiscriminately mixed that he could not foretell the consequence of the feeling it represented.

So then it was Magus, cold, drawing upon all his powersof voice and command, who took the feathers from her hand and drew them across her eyes, forcing the lids closed, chanting in his hypnotic voice, "Sleep, sleep. Dream. It is only a dream.A little, lustful dream. It will be forgotten in the morning.Order rules. Your battles will all be won. Makr Avehl is yourfriend, your champion, your warrior to fight your battles beside you. Sleep...." All the time afraid that the voice would fail him, that his man self had so undermined his Magus self as tomake his powers impotent.

But they were not. She slumped toward him, and he caughther as she fell, placing her upon her bed. When he left her a few moments later it was with a feeling of baffled frustrationand disoriented anger, not at her, not even much at himself,but at whatever it was, whoever it was who set this barrier between them. He mouthed words he seldom used, castigatedhimself. "Fool. You knew there was something troubling her,something you have no knowledge of, but you tramp about with your great bullock's feet, treading out her very heart'sblood...." For there had been that quality in her voice which had in it nothing of coquetry but only anguish. "Idiot. Get outof here before you do any more damage."

But he could not leave until he had written her a note, foldingit carefully. When he shut the door behind him, he turned to push it under the door, as though he had returned after leavingher. She would not remember anything of his—of his importunate assault. He had never felt so like a rapist for so littlereason, and his sense of humor began to reassert itself as he went down the stairs. She might accuse herself in the morning,but it would only be of drinking a bit too much. She could accuse herself, or him, of nothing else.

"And I will find out, will find out what it is makes her act like this." A voice hissed deep within. "Of course, it may be she simplydoes not find you attractive." 

"Be still. It isn't that. It isn't that at all. What it is is a threat. Desire—sex—a threat. Not merely the usual kind ofthreat which any intimacy makes to one's individuality, to one's integrity, no. More than that. Something real is threatening her, 

and I am walking around the edges of it."

He sat for a long time with his head resting on the wheel,continuing the mood of part castigation, part determination. At last, when he was more calm, he drove away. Behind him inthe lower window of the house, Mrs. Winesap twitched thecurtain back into place, an expression of sadness on her face.She had been sure that this man would not have stayed so shorta time. 




IF IT HAD not been a working day, she would have slept untilnoon. Since it was a working day, she struggled awake at thesound of the alarm, conscientiously set before she left her roomthe evening before. There was something hazy, misty in hermind, the lost feeling one sometimes gets when a recent dreamdeparts, leaving a vacancy. She shook her head, trying to remember. There had been a good deal of amusement and laughter the night before, a good many soft-shelled crabs, pate", wine... oh yes, wine. Her head ached a little, not badly, as thoughshe might have slept with her neck twisted. She rubbed at it, noticing for the first time that she was naked among the sheets.Good lord, there must have been a lot of wine. Her clothing was laid across the chair. At least she had had the wits to undress. She couldn't remember anything about it. Wrappingherself in a robe, ignoring the protest of bare feet on the cold

bathroom floor, she brushed her teeth, drenched her face in a hot towel, pulled a brush through her hair. Thus fortified, shehad the courage to look at herself in trepidation. The fearedbleary eyes and reddened nose were not in evidence. Well then,perhaps she had only been what Cloud-haired mama was wontto call "being a little tiddly." 

She was still half asleep when she went to the front windowto begin her daily monitoring of conditions of order and disruption. The white square on the carpet brought her fully awake.

Marianne, my dear: 1 forgot to tell you that my driver,Aghrehond, will pick you up on Saturday morning, about 9:00.My sister, Ellat, conveys her delight that you will be with us.She will be your chaperone and constant companion. No onewill be given any excuse to criticize. All will be very proper.If you do not have riding clothes, Ellat can provide them. Ilook forward to the weekend with much pleasure. Thank youfor a lovely evening.

She read this twice, confused. So she had agreed to spendthe weekend in Wanderly after all. How could his sister have known, if he had left this note just last night? Last night? Sheshook her head again, so confused that she did not see the last word on his note. He had thought long before adding it, nottruly sure that he meant it. He would have been much discomfitted to know she did not even see it. She crumpled the note. Lord. Riding clothes. Of course, she did have Mama's. And riding clothes didn't change from generation to generation. Shewould have to do some washing—and then there would bedinner. They would undoubtedly dress for dinner—if not formally, at least up. Could she wear the silk again? She stood,lost in thought, only reluctantly realizing that the phone wasringing.

"Marianne?" Harvey at his most charming. Everything withinher leapt up and assumed a posture of defense. "I wanted to thank you for telling me about Zahmani. I knew my aunt, that is, Madame Delubovoska, was in the States, but I had no idea that anyone would be here from Alphenlicht. I went down to New York to see her yesterday, and I met him. Evidently he'staken a country place not far from you while he's here in the

U.S. I've been invited for the weekend." The voice was gloat

ing a little, oleaginous."Yes," she stumbled slightly. "I know." Silence. Then, "Oh? How did you know?""I've been invited as well. Did you accept the invitation?"

Dangerous ground. She could feel his attention hardening ashe fixed it on her. Until this conversation she had never heard him mention his aunt from Lubovosk. The silence stretched, almost twanging with strain. "I'm going, of course," she said,more to break the silence than for any other reason.

"Marianne, you're obviously not awake. I dislike it whenyou sound muddled. I think you should take a few minutes todiscuss this." 

She was honestly dumbfounded. "What is there to discuss?I've already accepted the invitation. It was very nice of him to ask me." 

"We have to discuss," he said in a voice of ice, "whether it's appropriate for you to go at all."

Ordinarily, I would come unhinged at this point, .she thought,but this is not ordinarily. I am 1001 points ahead. I had a lovelyevening. The girls in the picture on my wall are setting lightsin the street. I have a real medicine bag full of good influencesprotecting my home. "I'm sorry you have any concern aboutit," she said in a voice that sounded unflustered. "I've accepted.Please don't be disturbed on my account, Harvey. His sister isstaying with him, and he assures me that it will be quite proper."

Silence. 

Silence. 

Oh, Lord, she thought. I've really done it. He will be so angry he'll cut off my allowance altogether and tell me to giveup school entirely. Whoops, there goes the graduate degree.

Ice voice. "I'm sure it will be quite proper. I'll look forwardto seeing you there, Marianne. Try to dress appropriately. Ihate it when you embarrass me." Gentle return of the phoneto the cradle, buzz on the line, Marianne sitting up in bed,staring at the wall.

"Harvey, if you do anything mean about my money, I'll godirectly to the head of your department at the university andtell him you tried to rape me when I was thirteen." She saidthis to the wall, almost meaning it. She did not know where the idea had come from. She had not thought of any suchreprisal before. "Blackmail Harvey?" she wondered at herself."I suppose I could try it. Would he tell the world it was all myfault?" 

Well, let him tell the world it was all the fault of a thirteen-year-old girl. Ten years ago people might have believed that.Ten years ago people actually wrote that fathers and olderbrothers weren't to blame for sexually abusing six-year-olds because the little girls were "seductive." Public opinion on thesubject of rape and child abuse and incest had changed a lotin the last ten years. She considered. One could make quite a case. His succession of Cheryls and Randis were very, veryyoung. An occasional one might be under eighteen. The question could be asked. It would stir up quite a storm. On the other hand, Harvey would probably devote all his resources toproving that she, Marianne, was a maladjusted, possibly neurotic spinster with an overactive imagination.

"Oh, Lord," she said. "I don't want to do that." 

"You don't want to drop out of school, either," her innerself replied. "One more semester, and the doctorate is yours,Mist Princess. One more semester, and you can go hunting fora teaching job somewhere. Out in public. With people."

As always, when she reached that point in her rumination,she stopped thinking about it entirely. It was one thing to getthe degree; it was something else to figure out what she wasgoing to do with it. That was what Harvey always meant whenhe said she was not a serious student. She didn't really wantto teach, or write, or do research. What she really wanted todo was work with horses, or maybe with animals in general.When she had been twelve, she had been sure that she would be a veterinarian. It had been all she could talk about, all she planned for. 

"What am I going to do with a degree in ethnology?" There was no answer. "One day at a time," she said. "Just take it one day at a time." This day, for example. A Friday. Whichpassed, as such days do, interminably but inevitably.

When Makr Avehl's driver, a pleasantly round man, arrivedon Saturday morning, she gave him her suitcase and followed him to the big car somewhat apprehensively. She had repudiatedthe blackmail idea, reflecting that she was almost certainly notstrong enough to see it through, and she was feeling the lackof any effective strategy to protect herself against Harvey duringthe weekend. On the other hand, driven by his nastiness on thephone, she had taken most of the money carefully saved forthe new kitchen tile and blown it on the two new outfits in her suitcase, both extremely becoming. After all, Makr Avehl hadsaid there would be a lot of other people around, and Harveymight not be able to do to her in public what he invariably did 

in private. She did not have long to dwell on these variousconcerns before she was distracted from her worries by theman named Aghrehond.

"You may sit in the back in lonely privacy, miss," he saidto her gravely. "Or you may sit in front with me. I shall ask you very many impertinent questions to improve my English,which as you can tell is already very good, and you shall reproveme." 

She was amused, as he had intended. "Why should I reproveyou?"

"I have a curiosity unbecoming a person of lower rank. Herein America they pretend there is no rank, so I can indulgemyself with—what is the word I want?—impunity. Faultlessness. Correct? It will give me bad habits, however, when Ireturn to the land of the Kavi. Where you call Alphenlicht."He looked at her hopefully, and Marianne gestured at the frontseat, indicating she would share it with him.

When they had reached the highway and were headed southat a conservative speed, he said, "You may call me Green.This is what part of my name means, and it is much easier tosay than Ah-Gray-Hond. Green sounds almost English. Just asMakr Avehl sounds very Scottish when it is said quickly. Macravail. That is a good name for a chieftain, isn't it? Green isa good name for a butler. I am also a butler and secretary andman who does a little of everything. What you would call..."

"A handyman," she suggested.

He shook his head. "No. That is one who does repairing oftilings. I mean something else. I am not good at repairingthings. If this car should stop itself, we would be quite forsakenuntil someone came to help us. A tiny nail, even, I will hitmy thumb instead."

"Me, too," she confessed. "I'm always stopping up mygarbage disposer. I can't make staplers work for any length oftime. They always jam."

"Ah. That surprises me. I think perhaps you have beenvictim of an adverse enchantment, a small annoyance spellperhaps, nothing very dangerous. For me, mechanical thingswork well, always, it is only I am clumsy with my hands. You, now, will not have such trouble in future. I am sure our Varuna will take care of this." 

"Your—who?" 

"Ah. Makr Avehl. The—Prime Minister, they say. Mis-ter-Zah-man-ee. In the land of Kavi we say 'Sir' or 'the Zahmani.' 'Varuna' is like—oh, a powerful priest. Very mighty, and agreat man. Good to listen to. But I beat him playing cribbage.He is what you would call a very lousy cribbage player."

"I don't play cribbage," Marianne admitted.

"I will teach you," he said with enormous satisfaction, turning off the highway as he did so. They were traveling betweentree-lined fields, white-fenced, velvet green and decorated withhorses. "When you come to Alphenlicht, there are long winter times with nothing to do. Then we will play cribbage."

"Am I to come to Alphenlicht?" 

"Most assuredly. You are one of the Kavi. One has only tolook in your face to see that. Do not all the Kavi come to theirown land? Most certainly. Makr Avehl will see to it." 

She was still amused. "What if I don't want to go?" 

"You will want to go. The Kavi always want to go."

"Is that woman—Madame Delubovoska—is she one of the Kavi?" she asked, unprepared for his response to this more orless innocent question.

He screeched the car to a halt, wiped his face repeatedlywith a handkerchief. "Listen," he said at last, "the Varuna has asked her to come to him for the weekend. This is a very dangerous thing. He knows this, now, maybe too late. That woman, she is... there is a word. Someone who does not care about anyone? Who takes other people and... uses them up?There is a word?" 

"A psychopath? A sociopath?" offered Marianne, doubtingthat this was what he meant. It evidently was exactly what he meant, for he nodded repeatedly, still mopping his face andneck. 

"That is it. Listen to me. Makr Avehl is wise, oh, very wiseand great. Truly a Varuna for his people. So wise. But not smart sometimes, I think. Sometimes I think I am smarter. He says so, too. When I win at cribbage, he says so. So, it maybe this woman is a Kavi. One time certainly her people wereso. Now, is she? Or has she done forbidden things so not tobe called Kavi anymore? Makr Avehl, he must know, he says.So, he asks her to come spend the weekend, so he can talk to 

her, listen to her, find out. Now, listen. I do not think it is smart to have you come at the same time. Not a smart move. So, you be careful. Do not ask any questions where she can hear you. Be a simple, pretty little kinswoman except whenyou are alone with Makr Avehl. Or me, of course."

He had frightened her rather badly, and she huddled in her corner of the front seat while he pulled the car back onto theroad and continued their journey. They had entered a forest,and the light splashed through the windshield at them, brokenby leaf lace into glimmering spatters. "What do you mean, forbidden things?" she asked at last.

He shook his head. "Do you know Zurvan?"She told him what she had heard at the lecture. "That's all I know. Zurvan is your god."

"More than that. Both male and female is Zurvan. Both dark and light. Both pain and joy. One who includes all. In balance. Now, if somebody tried to upset the balance, to makemore dark than light, that would be forbidden. That personwould not be Kavi. When you are alone with Makr Avehl, youask about the shamans. You know that word?" 

She nodded, amazed at this tack and scarcely believing thatshe was listening to this odd talk.

"Russia has lots of black shamans," he said. "In placeswhere the government does not go. There are places like that,even in Russia. Forests, deep chasms in wooded places. So, now Lubovosk has shamans, too. They say they don't needany religion there, you know. Not in Russia, no." He laughedas though this were very funny. "But still, they brought thoseblack shamans to Lubovosk. To learn, do you suppose? Or toteach. Or, maybe, just to make a great confusion. Anyhow,you be a quiet inconspicuous person and don't make that womanpay much attention to you." They drove on for a time in silence.

"Can the Kavi—can Makr Avehl do tricks? I mean," she said hastily, seeing his expression of disapproval, "can he do—supernatural things?"

"What sort of things? Kavi can do many very wonderfulthings, certainly."

"Could he—oh, could he deliver a letter into a locked room? Could he make a phone hook itself up so that he could callsomeone?" 

Aghrehond laughed. "Oh, these are only little things. Of course. Any Kavi could do simple things like these. What isit, after all, but moving something very small?" He went on chuckling to himself, and she could not tell if he were teasingher or not. He drove for a few miles in silence, then pointedaway to the right. "There is the house we have rented for thisseason. Not so beautiful as the Residence in Alphenlicht, butvery nice." 

It glowed gently in the morning sun, white-columned overits rose brick, gentled with ivy, stretching along the curve ofthe hill in wide, welcoming wings. Makr Avehl had not yetreturned from his business in New York, she was told, but she felt no lack of welcome as Aghrehond introduced her to EllatZahmani, Makr Avehl's sister, a stout middle-aged woman witha charming smile who offered her a second breakfast, a sun-drenched library, a brief expedition on horseback, or a walkaround the gardens. Laughing, Marianne accepted the secondbreakfast and a walk in the gardens. It was there that Makr Avehl found them. 

He kissed Ellat on the cheek, then Marianne, in preciselythe same way, so quickly that she could not take alarm. "Aghrehond has gone to the train to meet your brother," he said.'Tahiti will arrive later this afternoon. I think we will not call her Tahiti, however. We will be very dignified, very political,very correct. We will all say Madame Delubovoska."

"I will keep very quiet," Marianne said. "Your cribbage partner suggested it."

"You see!" Ellat's voice was serious. She shook her head. "Makr Avehl, I'm not alone in thinking this is a mistake. Badenough to invite her, but to have the child here—forgive me,Marianne, I know you're not a child, but anyone younger thanI am gets called a child when I am feeling motherly—to havethe child here may stir her up. She's not likely to enjoy the idea of reinforcements. An American Kavi? She'll hate the idea." 

"What is a Kavi?" demanded Marianne. "Green used that word. Am I one? How did I get to be one?"

"Ah, well," Makr Avehl drew them together. "Your father,dear Marianne, was a Kavi. Almost certainly. I'm not absolutely sure, can't be until I check the library at home, but I 

think he was a cousin whose family left Alphenlicht some fiftyyears ago. They came to America with a few relatives. Theremay have been some intermarriage. Now, I am sure who your mother was. She was the daughter of an official in the Alphenlicht embassy in Washington. All of these people were—or could have been—Kavi, which is simply our name for thehereditary family which governs Alphenlicht. Some consider it a kind of dynasty, others a kind of priesthood, but it meansno more than you wish it to in your case. It was what I had inmind when I called you a kinswoman. Do you mind?" 

"Is Harvey one?"

Makr Avehl shook his head. "We generally think of lineageas coming through the mother. When we use the word Kavi, we don't only mean bloodlines, we mean other things, too—matters of belief and behavior. No; I much doubt your half brother could be Kavi." 

Ellat obviously thought this might have upset Marianne, andshe started to explain. "In Lubovosk, after the separation, there was a good deal of racial mixing with another line."

"Shamans?" nodded Marianne. "There," exclaimed Ellat. "Aghrehond talks too much, Makr Avehl. He can't learn to keep his mouth shut."

"I think I'm the culprit, Ellat. Marianne and I had occasionto discuss shamans in another context. Yes. Black shamans, devil worshipers. We don't use the word 'Kavi' for any of thatline. I suppose Aghrehond told you to be prudently quiet aboutall this with Tahiti here?" 

"Yes, he told me. The problem is, I don't know how you'regoing to avoid the subject. Devil worship, shamanism and similar things happen to be Harvey's favorite professional topic,and he'll be after it like a cat after a mouse." 

"Is that so? I hadn't considered that. I knew, of course, that he has written on the subject of Alphenlicht—I've read someof it. But I hadn't thought that his interest extended to Lubovoskan cultural attributes... .Well, of course it would. His kinfolk are there! I wonder how old he was when he first met them? When he first learned of them? How old was he when his mother died?" 

"It seems to me he was ten or eleven. Old enough to resentPapa Zahmani marrying again so soon, only a year later. I 

know Harvey went to Lubovosk or somewhere over there whenhe was twenty-one or -two." He had been back only briefly when Mama had died. She would not forget that. "The trip was a graduation present from Papa. Then, I know he went again, that same year, just before Papa died."

"Well then, he will be well up on the subject, and we mayexpect him to raise issues which we would prefer not to discussin the company we will have. I'll take him in hand at lunch. Ellat, you'll have to manage him tonight. Divert him."

"If you have any very pretty guests," suggested Marianne,"that might do it."

Ellat shook her head, frowning. "The Winston-Forbeses arecoming to dinner tonight. Their daughter is very attractive, butvery young."

"He'll like that," said Marianne, without thinking and without seeing the odd, distracted look which Makr Avehl fixed onher. "The younger, the better."

It seemed for a time that she might have been concernedabout nothing. Harvey arrived in the big car, chatting withAghrehond as though they were old friends. He greeted MakrAvehl with courtesy, Ellat with gallantry, Marianne with a properpeck on the cheek and a smile which only she could haverecognized as ominous.

Marianne took a deep breath and put herself out to be pleasant. "How was the trip down, Harvey? Is there a station near?"

"About half an hour away. It was a very pleasant trip. Verykind of you to have asked me and my little sister down, sir.As a sometime student, Marianne does not often get this kindof treat." Charming smile. Guileless voice. Sometime student. Marianne fumed impotently.

"You're most welcome, Professor Zahmani," Ellat beingequally charming. "Your sister honors our home, and you wewelcome because of your interest in our part of the world. Docome in. You have just time to erase the stains of travel beforelunch." 

"I'll show him in, Ellat. Professor, I wanted to talk with you about that paper you did in the Journal of Archaeology—last June was it?—comparing the Cave of Light with the barsomprophecies of the Medes...." And Makr Avehl led Harveyaway into the upper reaches of the house, still talking. 

Ellat squeezed her arm. "Don't worry. We have two othercouples as luncheon guests." 

"Tahiti?" 

"Not until much later this afternoon. She is driving down. Now we will enjoy our lunch. Makr Avehl has told me his impulsive invitation to your brother—no, it is a half brother,only, isn't it?—well, that this invitation brings us a guest whoturns out to be unwelcome. I am glad you overcame your dislike of him enough to come. We will stay well apart from him, andMakr Avehl will keep him occupied."

And he did keep him occupied all during lunch, Harvey sofar forgetting himself at times as to let his voice rise in temperamental disagreement. Makr Avehl received these expostulations gravely, nodding, commenting, smiling. Harvey wascertainly not getting the better of the argument, but the soundof his sharp-edged voice made Marianne shift uncomfortably in her chair. 

Ellat nudged her knee. "Don't worry about it. So far they haven't gotten past the fifth century A.D. They're still talkingabout King Khosrow's persecution of the heretics."

"How can you tell?"

"It's what Makr Avehl always talks about when he doesn'twant to talk about something else," she smiled. "Even PrimeMinisters and High Priests are men, and men are somewhat predictable, you know. Besides, he lectures. He has this dreadful habit of pontificating at great length about things othersdon't care about. Hadn't you noticed?"

"He does a little," Marianne admitted, "but I don't reallymind. The things he has to say are interesting."

"Even if you were not interested, he would still wave his finger at you and tell you all about it. I tell him, 'Makr Avehl,try to listen sometimes. When you cease talking and there isonly silence, it is because you have ended all conversation.' He only laughs at me. Sometimes, I think, he tries to do better,but he forgets. I tell myself it is because he is shy."

"Shy? The Prime Minister? Shy?"

Ellat gave her a conspiratorial look. "Yes. Shy. He talks atsuch great length about impersonal things to avoid worrying about people. Oh, I have seen him spend great hours thinkingup tortuous reasons why people behave as they do, all because he will not admit they are simply ignorant, or silly, or tired.He is a great one for explanations, Makr Avehl, but only whenhe must. Most times he would rather not think about people.They confuse him." 

This was a new thought for Marianne, and she glanced atMakr Avehl, catching the brilliant three-cornered smile he threwher way and feeling her face flushing as it seemed to do eachtime she looked at him. Shy. Well. It was an explanation,though not one she was sure she believed. Perhaps Ellat was only teasing her.

She turned to the guest on her other side and smiled monosyllabic responses to a long, one-sided conversation aboutpolitics, turning back to Ellat in relief a little while later. "Thatpoor woman on Makr Avehl's other side isn't getting into theconversation much." She was watching the woman covertly, aquiet woman with a quiet, impressionable face.

"That poor woman is the LaPlante Professor of Archaeologyat the University of Ankara. I wouldn't worry about her. She will probably write some paper in one of the journals takingissue with your half brother on some abstruse academic subject."

"Good Lord! Does Harvey know who she is?"

"I doubt it. Makr Avehl introduced her as Madame Andami. That's her husband across the table from you. He's very deafand makes no attempt at conversation, but he enjoys food very much. I like them a good deal. She is interesting and he is restful. However, Madame Andami is not the name she uses professionally."

"So Harvey has been set up to make a fool of himself. Do I get the impression you all do not like my brother much?"

Ellat looked shocked. "What would make you say such athing? I think Makr Avehl knows that you do not like him verymuch. He knows this so well that he spent most of an hour onthe phone with me yesterday, talking of you, and of your halfbrother. Very serious talk. So I cannot tell you not to take him seriously, as I might tell some other young thing. A gentlewarning, you know the kind of thing? No, to you I say something else again. He may seem to be invulnerable and very strong. Sometimes he is very strong indeed, but he is not invulnerable." She gave Marianne a meaningful look which confused her enormously, then giggled, unexpectedly, an almost shocking sound coming from that dignified person. "So, even if we are sympathetic to your side of whatever problembrews, we have done nothing Professor Zahmani could complain of. If he is not civil enough to converse across the tableand find out what his luncheon partner does—well, what occursthereafter must be his fault, no?" 

Marianne, being human, found the thought of Harvey's discomfiture very pleasant indeed.

After lunch, Makr Avehl suggested that they all go riding.Harvey had not brought riding clothes. He demurred, explaining that he would be happy spending a few quiet hours in thelibrary. The others left him there with Ellat while they wentinto the afternoon sun and the freshness of spring. Madame Andami cast aside her quiet, listening pose and rode like acentaur, laughing when Marianne complimented her on herseat. "I have ridden donkeys, mules, camels, even elephants.You have not a bad seat yourself, young woman."

"I haven't really ridden in years. Before my mother died we lived in the country, and I had my own horse. I still misshim." 

"Ah, horses are a very great love to many girls of that age.I have been told it is something very Freudian."

"I don't think so," laughed Marianne. "I think it is at that age that boys begin to grow so much bigger and stronger, andwe girls feel left out. On the back of a horse, one ignores thefact that one is female." 

"You dislike being female?"

"Not really. It just makes... complications."

In midafternoon they were met at the end of a curving laneby Aghrehond, splendid in a plaid waistcoat, who offered them champagne and fruit from the tailgate of a station wagon beforethey returned by a more direct route, Makr Avehl riding atMarianne's side. 

"I did not wish to appear to monopolize your attentionsearlier," he said. "But now, we have only a little way back tothe house, and I can have you all to myself while the othersgo on ahead in such impatience. You got on very well with Madame Andami." 

"I like her. She was telling me about her work in Iran, 

before everything there went up in smoke. The places havesuch wonderful names. Persepolis. Ecbatana. Susa. I read aboutthem in school, of course, though it's not an area of the worldI have done any reading on recently."

"They have about them something of the fictional, isn't thatso? They were real, nonetheless. To us it does not seem thatlong ago, possibly because our children hear stories told aroundthe fire of things which happened fifteen centuries back. Suchstories carry an immediacy one does not get from books...."

"Which is why some countries carry such old grudges,"offered Marianne. "What children learn at their grandmas' knees, they act upon as though it happened yesterday."

He nodded gravely, even sadly. "Perhaps that is true. Thosewho have an oral tradition full of old wrongs and old revengedo seem to fight the same battles forever. If the Irish were notforever singing of their ancient wrongs—or writing poetryabout it... well, we see the result in every morning's newspapers,"

"Is that the kind of thing between Alphenlicht and Lubovosk? Or would you rather not talk about it?"

"Stories told at my grandma's knee? Oh, yes, Marianne.For my grandma remembered it happening. The country wasalways like the two halves of an hourglass, connected with anarrow waist, a high mountain pass which was difficult in thebest of times. To separate us, Russia had only to take that pass.Then the northern bit became a 'protectorate.' The general's name was Lubovosk—thus the name of the country. Later, ofcourse, it became a 'people's republic.' Under either name it was high, and remote, and difficult to reach. Grandmother toldme that at first we paid no attention. We continued to go backand forth from north and south, but we had to go over the mountain instead of across the pass. Then there began to bechanges in Lubovosk. The visitors who came from there cameto stay. Visitors from Alphenlicht who went there didn't return.There were whispers, rumors of evil."

"Aghrehond said I could ask you about shamans, but not when others were about." 

The expression on his face was one of embarrassment, almost shame. "Yes. I am ashamed to say it. Black shamans, from the land of the Tungus. Dealers in necromancy. People 

who would trifle with the great arts. Dealers in sorcery. Ah.You don't believe in any of this, do you?""It's not... it's not anything I've ever thought about except as... as..." 

"As a part of the superstitions of primitive peoples? Perhaps as survivals in the modern world? Little unquestioned thingswe learn as children? Fairy tales? No, you needn't apologize.Let me explain it to you in a way you will understand.

"Let us say a woman is driving a car. There is an accident,and her child is pinned beneath that car. She is a little woman,but she lifts that car and frees her child. You know of such things happening, yes? Well, let us suppose that before shelifted the car, she danced widdershins around the spare tire andcalled upon the spirits of the internal combustion engine, then raised up the car to rescue her child. Do you follow what I say?"

"You mean the first thing is unusual, but natural. The secondthing we would call magic?"

He beamed at her. "Precisely. The same thing happened in both cases, but only in one would we call it magic. There ismuch of which man is capable, much he is unaware of, all very natural. The worshipers of Zurvan, the Magi, are scholarsof this knowledge. The shamans, too, are scholars, but theyuse the knowledge in a different way. They teach that the powercomes through the ritual, through dancing around the sparetire. They teach, when they teach at all—which is not often,for they prefer to be mysterious—that the power comes throughdemons, godlings, devils. They teach that in order to obtainthe power, it is necessary to propitiate these devils. Followersof Zurvan teach that the power is simply there. We may userituals to help us focus our thoughts, but we know they aresimply devices, not necessary functions. Am I making any sense to you at all?" 

"You mean that their demons and devils don't really exist. ..." 

He shook his head, reached over to touch her hands where they lay loosely gripping the reins, his face dappled with sunlight as he leaned toward her. "Would not exist, Marianne, except for them. The act of worship, of invocation, can bring 

things into being which did not exist of their own volition—temporary demons, momentary gods." 

His intensity made her uncomfortable. "Isn't it all more orless harmless?" she said, trying to minimize the whole matter."Mere superstition? Regrettable, but not... not..."

"Not dangerous? When the ritual demands blood, or maiming, or death, or binding forever?" His voice had become austere, his expression forbidding and remote. "The difference between a true religion—and there are many which share aspects of truth—and a dangerous cult is only this: In the onethe individual is freed to grow and live and learn; in the otherthe individual is subordinated to the will of a hierarchy, enslavedto the purposes of that hierarchy, forbidden to learn except whatthe cult would teach. You have only to look at the rules whichgovern the servants of a religion to know whether its god isGod indeed, or devil!" He passed his hand across his face, thenlaughed unsteadily. "Listen how I preach. Aghrehond shouldnot have told you to question me about this. My anxiety is tooclose to my skin. Come, we will ride up to the others and think no more of it." 

But when they rode into the gravel courtyard near the stables, Marianne thought of it again, for a long black car stoodthere, the black and red diplomatic flag of Lubovosk fluttering over its hood. 

"I had not expected her for several hours yet," said Makr Avehl. Then, as he sat there, looking at the flag, he was struckwith a comprehension so violent that he swayed in the saddle.Tabiti. Madame Delubovoska. Harvey's aunt, his kinswoman.Why had he not made this simple connection before? If Harvey had not had the wit to pick out the things he had given toMarianne, if someone else had done so, someone sly, vile,deeply schooled in all the black arts—why, it would have beenTabiti. 

"Lord of Light," he thought, terrified. "Of course it wouldhave been Tabiti, and I have brought Marianne here, like bringing a lamb into a cave of wolverines." They had been so casual with one another when he'd met them in New York, he hadn't realized that they were not merely related, not merely acquaintances, but actually akin, sympathetic. He turned to Marianne 

with some urgency, knuckles white where they gripped thereins. "Wait," he warned himself. "Do not jump too quickly.You are not sure that this is true." But he was sure, so sure that his face was ten years older, drawn with concentration,when he turned to take Marianne's hand. 

"Kinswoman, I will ask you in advance to forgive me if Ipay you little attention for the next several hours. Now that Ihave learned a bit more about your half brother and his relationship to Lubovosk, I think it was a foolish mistake to invitehim into my house, a foolish mistake to invite Tabiti here. Thedimensions of my foolhardiness were unclear. I could not bemore sorry. Will you forgive me?"

She managed to create a smile, eager to give him whateverhelp she could. "I'll pay no attention at all."

"Stay with Ellat," he counseled. "Stick to her like a leech."

"Ellat may get rather bored with that."

"Ellat will prefer it," he grated.

They went into the house, to all appearances a cheerful, chattering group, through the open doors of the library whereEllat awaited them, her face slightly drawn with strain. As Marianne entered the room, she saw nothing but the two figuresacross it, Harvey and the Madame, faces alike as twins, eagerwith some strange avidity she could not identify, eyes hungryand glittering. They were staring only at Marianne, and shefelt their eyes like a blow.

Harvey came to take her by the hand, his own palm wetand sticky as though he had been working in the sun. "Well,little sister. Back from the ride? Come meet a relative of ours." She nodded, murmuring "of course" as he drew her from MakrAvehl's side across the room into a cold, threatening spacewhere it was all she could do to smile between tight lips inacknowledgment of the introduction. Madame's eyes were likethose of a bird of prey; they seemed to Whirl like wheels offire, and her voice had serrated edges to it, a kind of velvetfile rasping in her head. 

"I'm so pleased to get to meet you at last, my dear. Mynephew has mentioned you so often, told me so much about you. How is the school going? Did I understand you had hadsome academic difficulties?" 

Marianne tried to deny this, tried to say that she had had 

no difficulty, except in carrying a heavy load of course workin addition to working full time, but the words stuck in herthroat. 

She heard Harvey's voice as though through a pool of thickwater, thick, cold water, gelid, about to crystallize into icemaking a thunder in her ears. "Oh, I don't think Marianne letsthat worry her. She isn't that serious about her work." 

Again Marianne tried to protest, realizing in panic that she could not breathe. She was suffocating. Then Ellat was besideher, saying something about Marianne's having promised tolook at the orchids in the conservatory, and she was drawnaway from them and was in another room, leaning against awall, gasping for breath.

"What... how..." she gasped. "What happened?"

"It is an amusement for her," said Ellat angrily. "It's something she does. For fun, I think. She tried it on me, but Makr Avehl had warned me. I will show you how to prevent its happening again. Also, I've had your things moved out of theguest wing and into my room. It's a large room with two beds,and we will share it. I think it will be safer if you are not alone.We'll go there now." And the two of them sneaked away upstairs like naughty children, though Ellat continued her angrymuttering the while. Once behind the closed door, Ellat washedMarianne's face with a cool washcloth, as though she had,indeed, been a child. 

"It's frightening, isn't it? I could see your face turning red,as though you couldn't get your breath.""What did you mean, it's something she does? I don't understand what's going on."

"Have you ever heard of telepathy?"

"I've heard of it. I don't believe in it." 

"Well, then don't believe in it if you don't want to, Marianne, but listen to me anyhow. That woman down there, that—Lubovoskan," she spat the word as though it had been a curse."That woman made a very strong telepathic suggestion to youthat you could not breathe, that you were suffocating. As I said, she tried it on me earlier, but Makr Avehl had warned me. Now, if you aren't comfortable with the idea of telepathy, that's fine. Call it subliminal suggestion or something. Or pretend she has a transmitter in her pocket that blocks your brain 

waves. Whatever. She can do it, and you.felt it.""I don't believe this," Marianne protested. "Things like this aren't possible."

"Well," said Ellat, "you felt it. Was it false? A result of riding too long, perhaps? Coming into a warm room out of theair? Dizzyness? Perhaps something to do with the menstrualcycle—that's always a good explanation for such things. Hysteria?" She waited angrily for Marianne's denial, which did not come. "No. It was none of these things. It was an unworthyexercise of certain abilities which should never be used in such a way. It is a kind of seduction, one of several kinds they use. Well, we knew she could do such things. We did not know shewould do them; particularly, we did not think of her doing them here or to you. So you must either run or confound her. Whichis it to be?" 

"I will confound her," pledged Marianne, revulsed by thememory of Harvey's hungry, prurient eyes. It had been Ellat'suse of the word "seduction" which had decided her. Of course it was a kind of seduction. A kind very like the one Harveyhad been trying on her for years, a seduction of power, ofoppression, of dominance. "I will confound her if I can, but she makes me feel like Harvey does. I can feel her peeling me,taking my skin off to look inside, layer by layer. I feel flayedwhen she looks at me. She scares me." 

"That one scares Makr Avehl himself, girl. But I think wecan manage to get through the evening." She began to clearthe top of her dressing table, beckoning Marianne to a placebefore the mirror where she could see her own frightened faceabove Ellat's busy hands. 

"This," said Ellat, making a specific shape with her lefthand, "we call the 'tower of iron.' Make this shape with your hand. No. Look, at it more closely. That's right. Now this wecall the 'wall which cannot be moved.' I will tell you about these...." So the lesson began. 

Hours later Marianne sat before the mirror once more, dressed in one of the new outfits, a glittering silver sheath,hair piled high in a simple, dramatic style which one of Ellat'smaids had done for her. She breathed deeply, setting her owncenter of being high and balanced. "You will not get me again,Harvey," she said. "Not you or your aunt." The woman in the mirror could be afraid of nothing. I am a tower of iron, she sang quietly to herself in the litany Ellat had taught her, movingher hand in the proper sign. I am a fortress of strength, a wall which cannot be moved. 

Ellat was running a brush across her shining head, pattingthe full knot which she wore low upon her neck. "Remember to think reflection. Visualize lightning striking a mirror andbeing reflected back. Remember."

Marianne shut her eyes, fastening her sparkling necklacewith its shining pendants. She glittered all over, a gemmy wand,' bending and swaying, the necklace flashing. "I remember, Ellat. I'm trying to remember everything you've said."

"I'll be right beside you. There's the dinner gong. Shall wego down?"

Marianne took a deep breath, nodded, began to breathe slowly, calmly, focusing her thought upon strength and will.They went into the library as though for a stroll in the gardens,setting themselves like adamant against the will of Madame,against the hot curiosity in Harvey's avid eyes. Was it only herimagination, thought Marianne, or did he seem disappointed?What did that questioning look to Madame mean? Perhaps they had not expected her to be able to come down to dinner at all.She gritted mental teeth and smiled, visualizing lightning withevery fiber in her brain. I am a tower of iron. 

Madame came toward her at once, Harvey trailing behind,making Marianne think irreverently of a mother goose with one gosling, Madame's expression being very much a looking-down-the-beak one. She laid a hand on Marianne's shoulder and Marianne stepped back, out of her reach. Madame's eyes glittered at this and she said, "Harvey and I were just discussingwhat you might enjoy seeing when you come to Lubovosk withyour brother."

I am afire which cannot be put out, she thought. "Really?" she said aloud. "I have not contemplated such a trip, and it'sunlikely I could travel so far any time soon."

"Oh, Bitsy, anything is possible," said Harvey, smiling,sipping at his cocktail, lips wet and avid in the soft light ofthe room, sucking lips, vampire lips.

"Not for me, I'm afraid," she said, smiling in return. I am a tower of iron. "Besides," she turned a spiteful reposte, "if I 

traveled to that part of the world, it would be to my mother'speople—to Alphenlicht." Had she put that slight emphasis onmy, my mother's people? Yes. The air boiled around her andshe felt Madame's fury like a blow.

"There is really very little there to interest you, my child,"the woman said. "Very little of interest to anyone. It is a countryof peasants and priests."

"Do I hear my name being taken in vain?" asked Makr Avehl, offering Marianne a glass and taking her elbow in hishand to turn her away toward other guests. "What is this aboutpeasants and priests? Are you talking shop again, Tahiti?" Marianne felt his fingers tremble on her arm, knew that he wasalmost as sunk in rage as Madame herself, felt herself adriftin these vicious currents which spun around her. I am a fortress of strength, she told herself, moving away to be introduced toother guests, Ellat close beside her.

At dinner, she was at the far end of a long table from Harveyand Madame, and she was able to ignore them for momentsat a time. After dinner, they came close to her again, the thrustof their intention as clear as though they had struck at her witha blade. Makr Avehl spoke to her only casually, as to any otherguest. Ellat stayed close.

I am a fortress of diamond, Marianne told herself, concentrating upon reflecting their intentions back upon themselves.She moved her hand into the configurations Ellat had shownher, then thought about them, internalized them. A mountain of stone. Making a hard fist with her right hand. I cannot be moved or changed. I am the fire which cannot be put out.

Flicker of first and second finger of the right hand, a trill ofmovement, secretive. "Hey, Bitsy," Harvey called. "How are you getting back totown tomorrow?" 

I am diamond, Marianne told herself. "I hadn't thoughtabout it, Harvey." Quietly asserting the while, I am iron. Left forefinger raised, pressed against cheek. 

"Then you must let me drive you back." Madame, gaily importunate. "Your brother has already consented to accompany me, and your home is on our way." 

"Marianne." Makr Avehl, laughing. "I am crushed! Had you forgotten so soon that you promised I could drive youback? I have those papers to pick up which your librarian sokindly offered to lend to me."

I am iron. I an adamant. Smiling, turning to him with a little moue of forgetfulness. "I did promise. Of course. I'm sorry, Madame. Another time, perhaps." I am the fire which cannot be put out.

"Oh, I am disappointed. Yes, we will certainly make anotheroccasion. I have not had opportunity to get to know you nearlyas well as I should like." Gentle, caressing, infinitely threatening.

We are like Siamese fighting fish, thought Marianne. We circle, our fins engorged with blood, ready to die if need be,caught up in our dance. She flinched nervously as Ellat touchedher on the arm. 

"Would you like to go up? You said you wanted to rideearly in the morning."

Taking this lead, Marianne nodded gratefully. "Thank you,Ellat. Yes. I am a little tired. The ride this afternoon was a longer one than I've had in years. Good night, Madame, Harvey.Madame Andami, I enjoyed your company today. Mr. Williams, Betty. I enjoyed our discussion at dinner. Mrs. Williams.Mr. Winston-Forbes, Harriet, Stephany. Good night, Your Excellency. It has been a very pleasant day." To walk away, backstraight, face calm, up the stairs. I am a tower of adamant, I cannot be moved. Down the hall with Ellat, into the room, to collapse across the bed, bent tight around a stomach whichheaved and squirmed within her.

"You did very well," said Ellat, giving her a glass of something sweet and powerful which melted warmth through herand stopped the heaving.

"Nothing happened," Marianne whispered. "If you'd takena movie of it, you wouldn't have seen anything. Nothing happened at all. But I kept feeling them." 

"Nothing seemed to happen; very much was happening.Your half brother has made an alliance. He has done it very suddenly it seems. Did he know her before?"

"I never heard him mention her name until a day or so ago.I didn't know he had relatives in Lubovosk." 

"He writes mockingly of the Cave of Light. That is a typicalLubovoskan attitude." 

"I only know what I told you earlier. I think he went theretwice. Once shortly before Mama died. Once, later, before Papa Zahmani died. When each of them died, Harvey had... had..." 

"Had only recently returned?"

"Had only recently returned," she agreed in a dead voice,remembering Dr. Brown's words, heard through a closed door when she had been only twelve: "I would have said she died of suffocation, Haurvatat." Suffocation. Not being able to breathe. A thing Madame did to people for fun. Had Madamebeen able to teach that skill to Harvey? Harvey, who had been rejected by Cloud-haired mama and told to go find a nice girl his own age? Or had Madame herself come to confront Cloud-haired mama when no one else was there to see, to remember? 

"There may be no connection at all," said Ellat firmly,undoing the tiny buttons at the back of Marianne's gown. "Goin there and have a nice, hot shower and put on your robe.Makr Avehl will come up here before he goes to bed. After a good night's sleep, nothing will look so ominous."

"I'm afraid I won't sleep," she confessed, the vision of Mamaand Madame in intimate confrontation still oppressing her."Another glass of what I gave you before, and you willsleep."

Makr Avehl's light tap at the door came late, when the partydownstairs had broken up and the sound of voices calling good-night to one another had fallen into silence, when lights hadbegun to go out in upstairs windows that Marianne could seein the opposite wing. He entered quietly, embraced Ellat, thensat on the edge of Marianne's bed. "Isn't this ridiculous?" he asked. "I invite a lovely young woman for a weekend's visit,all quite properly chaperoned by my sister. I invite her brother, too, because I am curious, and an old antagonist of mine,because I am proud, and suddenly all turns to slime and wickedness. You find it difficult to believe, don't you? Well, so doI, and I have less excuse than you do. Marianne, my dear, willyou rise at dawn, please, and go down to the stables whereAghrehond will meet you and take you away from here. Leaveyour bags. I will bring them when I meet you later in the day 

to drive you home, as promised. There are too many currentshere, too many eddies of greed and passion. Tell me, Marianne,would... would your half brother benefit in any material wayif harm came to you?"

Her throat went dry, harsh as sandpaper. She had had thosethoughts, had banished them, had put them down, "buried,begone" in her own litany, but they lunged upward now likecorpses long drowned and broken free of some weight to risehideously through slimed water to the surface. She cried out at the horror of it, all at once weeping in a steady flow. Ellattook her into her arms and held her, saying "Shh, shh. He shouldn't have asked it so abruptly like that. But you don'tprotest, Marianne. You don't protest?"

"No," she cried. "I can't protest, Ellat. I've thought it toomany times. I thought I was wicked to think such a thing, onlya wicked, angry child. But, oh, if I died, he would get all that Mama left me—it's all tied up in Papa Zahmani's estate, andmy share of Papa's estate, too. It's a lot. More than I ever wanted or expected. More than anyone could need."

"Ah," said Makr Avehl. "So he has a reason. Now, what is her reason?" 

Ellat shushed him and gave Marianne something which senther into sleep, all at once, like falling into velvet darkness.She was still fuzzy at the edges of her mind when they put herinto Aghrehond's care at dawn in the stableyard, among thehorses clattering out of the place for exercise and the groomschattering as they headed for the wooded roads.

"Come, pretty lady," said Aghrehond. "We must be awayfrom here." "Won't they think I'm terribly rude," she asked, "leaving the party unannounced this way?"

He made a conspiratorial face with much scrunching ofeyebrows and mouth. "Ellat will say you have gone for an earlyride. This is strictly true. She will not say 'horseback,' thoughthey may think so. Others may also desire to ride. So, that isfine, and Makr Avehl will go with them. It is a large place, isis not? There are many miles of pleasant roads around it. Whois to wonder if you are not seen by anyone until noon? Bythen, you will be elsewhere. Tsk. Stop frowning. You make your face all frilled, like a cabbage leaf." 

She stopped frilling her face and let the day happen. Theystopped for breakfast in a small, seaside town. They shoppedfor antiques along the winding streets. They drove through anational monument. They returned to the small town a littleafter noon to find Makr Avehl waiting for them with Marianne's bags in his car.

"There is a buffet luncheon going on back at the house,"he said to Aghrehond. "Some are eating now, others will haveluncheon when they return from riding. Some friends of Ellat'swill come in to swell the numbers. We will not be missed for some time, which is fortunate." His face was set, grim, andhe made a covert sign to Aghrehond which Marianne saw fromthe corner of one eye. "When someone asks—and not until then—you may say to Ellat in the hearing of the rest that Ihave driven Marianne back early in order to go on to Washington for an early meeting at the State Department."

"What happened?" she demanded. "Something happened. What was it?" 

He barked a short expletive, chopped off, as a curse halfspoken. "A pack of feral dogs," he said, "came out of nowhere,according to the grooms. Madame Andami was bitten on the leg. Superb rider, of course, and she stayed up. We've sent her to a physician up in Charlottesville. One of the horses is cut up a bit. The vet is there now. Someone riding alone—someone not as fine a rider as Madame Andami, someone out of practice, for example—might have been seriously injured."They stood for a moment considering this. "The head groomworks for the people who own the place, of course, as do allthe servants except for Ellat's maids and my secretary. He sayshe has never known it to happen before. It's horse country. A pack of feral dogs that would attack horses? It wouldn't betolerated for a day! They would have been hunted down."

Marianne did not ask the questions which tumbled into hermind. Did someone think the dogs were set upon the riders?Was it an accident? Makr Avehl's face had the look of one who did not wish to talk, to guess, to theorize, the look of a manrigidly but barely under control. He waved Aghrehond back tothe big car as he ushered her into the smaller one. Over hershoulder, she saw the large car turn back toward Wanderly and the house. She remained quiet, let time and miles pass, watched 

Ms face until it began to relax slightly, then asked, "You thinkthey were after me?" 

"I'm sorry, Marianne. I do think so. Yes."

"You think that's possible? To stir up dogs that way? Makethem attack horses?" 

He made an odd, aborted stroking motion toward his chin."I could do it. It wouldn't even be difficult. I know that she can do it, because I can, and whatever I may think about Tahiti,she's strong. Lord, she's strong. And I am weakened by beingangry at myself. No—don't shush me. I am angry at myself.Before I invited you here, I never thought to ask about yourtrue relationship with your brother. I knew you didn't like him,I knew things were not good between you, but I never tried toget at the bottom of it. I should have considered it more fully.Instead I lulled you. I lulled myself.

"Marianne, he means you ill. Not merely in the slightlyjealous way one sibling may cordially detest another—which,Lord help me, was what I had considered. No, he means youreal destruction as surely as this road leads to your home. Hemeans you ill and he has made some kind of alliance withMadame to that end—if, indeed, she is not a primary moverin this matter. And I, who foolishly exposed you to this, mustfind a way to protect you."

Marianne laughed bitterly, and when he turned an astonishedface on her, she laughed again. "Makr Avehl, you don't knowhow relieved I was last night to hear you say that. For years,I've thought that Harvey hated me, or resented me. For yearsI've fought against his patronizing me, destroying me. Whenever I got my head up, he'd do his best to knock it down. The only things I could be sure of succeeding at were things hedidn't find out about. Always with that hating face, that superiorsmile. But nothing I could prove. Nothing anyone else couldsee.. So I felt guilty, wicked. I felt I didn't have the right to hate him. After all, Papa left him in charge, left him to takecare of me. Now you say he's trying to harm me—really. For money. For Papa Zahmani's money. I suppose it's true. Harveylikes money. He never has enough, though what he inheritedshould have been enough for anyone. But I get more, of course,when I'm thirty, because a lot of it was my mother's. My mother's, not Harvey's mother's. But Papa was old country, through and through. Couldn't see leaving it to me until I was a matron. Girls had no real status with Papa. He loved me, but that was different." 

"That may be true, but I think it more likely he saw you asa little girl and he saw Harvey as a grown man. Perhaps he only wanted to protect you. How old was Harvey?"

"Oh, twenty-five or -six. That may have been it. I was onlythirteen. I wish I could feel that was it." 

"Your papa had no reason to mistrust his son?"

"No. Harvey was never... he was never strange until Mama died. When I was a little girl, I thought he was Prince Charming. Really. He was so handsome, so gallant. He brought little presents. He... he courted us, Mama and me. Then, when Mama died, he changed, all at once. He became something ... something horrible." 

"I think it possible that he did not understand the reality ofthe property division between your parents. I don't think he realized quite what part of the family fortunes were yours,Marianne. Perhaps he began to be a bit strange when he visitedLubovosk. I'm sure that he was given weapons there he shouldnot have had, and now I must defend you against them. You must be very brave, and very strong. There are certain thingsblack shamans can do—and certain things people trained bythem can do. You've seen a sample already....

"There are worse things: transport into the false worlds, intothe dream borders, binding forever in places which exist withinthe mind and have virtually no exits to the outside world....

"But to do any of these things, the shaman believes that hisritual demands consent. Listen to me, Marianne." 

"I'm listening. You said the ritual demands consent." 

"Remember it. The shamans believe the ritual is necessaryto the effect, and they believe that consent is necessary to theritual. The shaman says to his victim, 'Will you have some tea?' And the victim says, 'Yes, thank you.' That is consent. In my own library, your brother said to you, 'Come, let meintroduce you to...' and you nodded yes. That was consent.So she then struck at you."

"Did the people who went riding consent? If so, to what?"

"More likely, Madame went down to the stables before goingto bed last night, taking a few lumps of sugar with her. 'Here, old boy, have a lump of sugar,' and the horse nods his head, taking the sugar. He has consented then, and they can use him.So also with dogs, with birds, with anything they can get to take food from their hands. The true victim was to be the horse, whatever horse you might be riding or anyone else might beriding. They are not over scrupulous."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"I am saying, for a time, do not consent to anything your brother proposes. If he says on the phone 'isn't it a nice day,' say 'no, it is not.' If he says 'wouldn't you like to go to Mexicofor your vacation,' say 'no, I'd rather go somewhere else.' Be disagreeable. Better yet, do not talk to him at all."

"Forever? That may be difficult."

"Only for a few days, until I can get a few of the Kavitogether to make a protection for you. Until we can teach youto protect yourself. I don't even want to take you home, toleave you there alone, except that anything else would makethem more determined, more dangerous. As it is, they may notknow we suspect them."

"The thing Ellat taught me won't work?""You're not schooled enough in its use. You haven't the discipline. I hate to leave you, even for tonight."

"They can't be in that much of a hurry," she said nervously,disturbed by his intensity. "I don't inherit for another four years,for heaven's sake. Harvey isn't going to do anything precipitous." 

"I suppose you're right. Once one begins to feel this menace,this gathering force, it is like hearing a thunderstorm in one'shead. Space and time are lost in it. One is at the center of fury." He reached to take her hand in his, utterly unpreparedfor the reaction his words would bring. "Marianne, I could staywith you tonight."

Her hand whipped away from him, without volition. Her mouth bent into an oval of rejection, horror. "I'm not like that,"she said, the words coming from deep within, words she didnot usually say aloud but were now aloud, between them, harshand ugly. "Not like that." She shuddered once, again, muttered words under her breath, like a litany, got control of herself,tried to make light of it, did not succeed. His face was white, blank. 

"I've offended you," he said at last. "I meant nothing dishonorable. Please. It was only to offer protection. You're probably right. There is not that much hurry. They aren't mind readers, after all. They cannot know how thoroughly I am alerted to the danger they pose. We will comfort ourselves with that thought. If your brother calls, you will be light, and cheerful, and contrary. Please remember to be contrary, Marianne."

She agreed to do so, not hearing him, too caught up in theinternal maelstrom he had unleashed, wanting only to be outof the car and behind a door, her own door, shut against theworld. "Not like that," the hissing demon voices inside kept saying. "Harvey was wrong. I'm not like that."

He left her at the door, seeing on her face that he shouldnot offer to come in. She went in to disconnect phone, to sitfor an hour in her window while the sun went down and the stars began to peek over the roofs and chimneys. The buds of the oak outside her window had begun to unfurl into tiny, curledhands of innocent pink, and her mind squirmed in guilt and confusion at the fact that now, even now, she lusted after him, wanted him, and all the years of not wanting did not seem tohave immunized her at all. 

At last she set to work building mental towers of adamantand walls of iron. She put herself to sleep with the litany Ellathad taught her. She awakened to her clock radio, news of combat and death, so ordinary and distant as to be undisturbing.She was almost ready for class when the doorbell rang, andshe saw the delivery man's hat through the peephole, knewthat it must be some little gift from Makr Avehl, felt again thatcombined guilt, lust and self-loathing. She opened the door toreceive the package, accept the the proffered pencil. 

"You have to sign for it. Where the X is on the line."

"Yes," said Marianne, "I will." Only to see the glitter ofeyes as the uniformed person's head came up, dark, hawk-faced, mouth curved in a cry of victory. She had only time tothink that she had given consent and to say, "Madame Delubovoska," before all went dark around her. 




IT WAS DARK by the time Makr Avehl arrived in Washingtonafter miles of driving through country he did not see, traffiche did not consider, in a state of mind best described, he told himself, as unnerved and astonished. While his mouth had been busy saying words which meant, in whatever language he wasthinking, "Gods in heaven, what ails the wench!" his center ofbeing was saying in another tone, perhaps another languageentirely, "Oh, my dear, my very dear." This colloquy was overin the moment which it occupied, leaving his political selfshaken before the sweet longing of that inner voice: "Oh, myvery dear." And that was when he knew, absolutely and withoutany remaining doubt. Not earlier, when he had seen her at dinner, a sparkling baton of willow flesh, bending but notbreaking before her brother's assault; not on horseback, faceeager as a child's, with tendrils of hair wet on her foreheadfrom the sun; not as he had seen her in the car, first laughingthen crying to know that all her world was arrayed against herbut that she was not insane. 

So. So what was he to do now? She had rejected him andhe had left her, left her there alone, and he could not go back to force himself upon her, for in such forcing might end allthat he now in one instant hoped and longed for, without warning or premonition. Well, no matter the reason, if any. If shehad rejected him, she had not rejected Ellat, and what Ellatcould not find out was not worth the finding. So he drove like a maniac to reach his hotel and a phone so that Ellat might beenlisted in his sudden cause. He was convinced of danger,smelled it, felt it breathing hotly on his neck, a scent of bloodand damnation. She must accept help from Ellat.

Oncoming headlights speared toward his eyes, and he cameto himself as a horn shrieked beside him, dopplering by andaway into darkness with a howl of fury. This sobered him. Hewould call Ellat as soon as he arrived in Washington. Until then, he would try to behave more sensibly and think of otherthings. 

In which he was only partially successful. Ellat was eagerenough to help Marianne. "Of course I'll stay with her. We got along quite nicely. If you really feel...." But her desire to help did not allay Makr Avehl's concern.

"I really feel," he said grimly, "that there's something morethan merely wicked going on here."

"I can't figure what they're playing at," fussed Ellat. "Madame using her cocktail party magic tricks here, in this house,against one of your people."

"I think Madame sees Marianne as one of her people, or one of Harvey's people, which amounts to the same thing. Canyou be here by lunch time tomorrow?" 

Lunch time, she said, yes. Yes, the guests had all departed.Yes, the horse which had been bitten seemed to be healing and a dog they had captured was being tested for rabies. Yes, he could turn in the little car to the rental agency, they would usethe big one. Yes, the servants were packing so that they mightleave. "I'm tired of all this, Makr Avehl. I want to go home." 

"Just as soon as we do something about Marianne, Ellat. Ipromise." 

Something in his voice said more than he had intended, forthere was a waiting silence at the other end of the line, a silencewhich invited him to say more than he was ready to say. Whenhe did not fill it, she said, "Take her with us. That's the sensible thing to do." 

"It's called kidnaping, Ellat. The Americans don't find it socially acceptable. They have laws against it."

Ellat only snorted. "Tomorrow. At lunch time."

On which note he found himself sitting on the side of hisbed, holding the phone in one hand as it buzzed a long, agitatedcomplaint. Should he call Marianne? What could he say? No.Better leave it. Drop in with Ellat tomorrow, about five in the afternoon, when Marianne got home from work. Gritting histeeth, he turned from the phone to his briefcase to spend twodull hours going over the material he would use in his meetingthe following morning.

And when that meeting was over, he felt it had all been anexercise in futility, a kind of diplomatic danse macabre in whichhe and Madame had shaken skeletons at one another like children at a Halloween party. And yet the woman had seemed strangely satisfied, as though she had won whatever game shewas playing.

"The undersecretary of state assures me that we may dependupon the status quo," he said to Ellat over the lunch table. 

"Which means precisely what?" asked Ellat, not interruptingher concentration on a plethora of oysters.

"Which means exactly nothing," he admitted. "The U.S. has spoken for us in the U.N. and that's it. They don't takethe matter seriously, and I'm beginning to think they're right.This has all been a charade. Madame is up to something else,and this has all been misdirection, probably for my benefit."

"Marianne said that." 

"She said what?" 

"Marianne said that if the Lubovoskans really intended to take us over, they'd invade.""Well, of course they have tried that," he said."She would have no way of knowing that, Makr Avehl. I 

repeat what I said earlier. If you want to keep the child safeand away from that horrible brother of hers, take her with us."

He did not reply. The food did not tempt him, and he waswaiting impatiently for Ellat's affair with the oysters to run its course. He dared not agree with her, for she would take it asa promise, but emotionally he had begun to believe only thecourse she had suggested would satisfy him—to take Mariannewith him when he left. 

"Eat your oysters, Ellat," he said. "It may be your last opportunity to do so. Aghrehond will be here with the car in twenty minutes."

They approached Marianne's tall house just at sunset. Thedoor into the front hall stood open and on the tiny turfed areabetween the steps and the iron fence, Mrs. Winesap leaned ona lawn edger, intent upon the clean line separating daffodilsfrom grass. She looked up in frank curiosity, staring at MakrAvehl and Ellat from her broad, open face, mouth a little open,rather gnomelike with her cutoff jeans and baggy shirt. "I don'tthink Marianne's here," she told them. "The door's open, though,so she must have run out just for a minute."

Makr Avehl acknowledged this information with a pleasantnod, stood back to let Ellat precede him into the hallway and halfway up the stairs. Then he saw Marianne's jacket, obviouslytrodden upon where it lay half on the upper step, then theclipboard of papers with her signature scrawled and runningoff one edge. The door to her apartment was open. On the window seat the purple crocuses wilted in the close heat, anda fly buzzed in frustration against the closed window.

He stepped back into the hall to pick up the clipboard,knowing as he did so what had happened. It could all be readin the signs; the track of the beast could be seen. The worldbegan to turn red inside his eyes, and he realized he was holdinghis breath. Released air burst from his lungs, and he sat downabruptly. "She's gone. Oh, damn me for a fool, Ellat. Damn me for an arrogant, irresponsible fool. We're too late. She's gone."

Ellat was already going down the stairs, out into the tinyfront yard. "You must be Mrs. Winesap? I thought so. Marianne has told me all about you. She's so grateful for your help withthe lawn. I wonder, did you happen to notice anyone comingor going this morning? I had sent a package, and I wondered ..." 

Sympathetic, warm expression saying what a nice womanshe was to have sent a package. "I saw him leaving. Went outof here like a cat with his tail on fire. Must have left his deliverytruck around the comer, because he went off down the block in the time it took me to say 'Good morning.' I hate it when people are so bad-tempered they don't even respond to a simple 

time of day. I said, 'Good morning,' loud and cheerful, and I didn't even get a grunt from him."

"That would have been about what time?" 

"Oh, let me see. What did I come outside for? I'd had breakfast, and Larkin was doing the dishes, and I'd written a letter to my sister—that was it—and I'd come out to put it inthe mailbox for the postman. So it wasn't time for 'Donahue' yet, or I'd have been watching him. About 8:30, I'd say, givea little take a little." She laughed heartily. "I always say don'tbe too sure, and nobody can call you a liar."

He was holding onto the banister when Ellat came back upthe stairs. "I heard," he said. "Then Marianne wasn't taken." He turned back into the room. On the window seat the Delvaux print of the young women setting lights in the street was brokenin two, splintered ends of frame protruding like broken bones.He went through to the bedroom. Nothing. Orderly. She had made the bed. The bathroom was a little messy, towel droppedrather than folded. "She was here when the doorbell rang," hesaid to Ellat, turning to make a helpless gesture to Aghrehondwho had just come up the stairs. "Doorbell rang, she went tothe door. The person there said something about signing for apackage, and Marianne said 'of course' or 'sure' or something of the kind—without thinking. She didn't even have time to be afraid." Oh, God, he thought, why did she pull away fromme with that revulsion? I should have been here. I should have been the one to answer that door, confront that monster. 

"If it is that Lubovosk woman, she flips her finger at you,"said Aghrehond. "She sneers like a boy in the street, nyaa, nyaa, nyaa. She makes an insult, a provocation. Why?"

"Perhaps," said Ellat, "because she has had the wits to seethat Makr Avehl cares for the girl. Bait. Bait in a trap."

With horror, Makr Avehl thought of the white bird and theblack, demon fish; thought of the naked girl carrying her littlelight into the darkness while trying to pretend that she wasdreaming. He came to himself staring at his own face in themirror, haggard and terrified.

"Why is the picture broken?"

"I gave it to her," he replied woodenly. 'To replace a very unpleasant one her brother had given her. If Harvey saw it—if Madame saw it, they would know in an instant that someone 

was intervening in Marianne's affairs.""But she wasn't taken," said Ellat. "Whoever it was didn't take her." 

"Sent," Makr Avehl growled. "Not taken, sent." So, wherever she was now, among the false worlds, somewhere in theendless borderlands where no maps existed and the shortestdistance between any two points was never a straight line, shewas at least together, body and soul. He had seen bodies sundered from their souls. He had experienced souls sundered inthat way, too. Better not, far better not. If he had had to choosebetween two horrors, it would have been this, at least. That she was in one place. One. Somewhere.

"I must go into Madame's limbo after her, into whatever borderland place she has been sent.""Makr Avehl! Think of the danger!" Ellat laid a hand uponhis arm. "Think!" 

"I am thinking," he muttered. "You, too. Think of her. Somewhere alone. Lost. Frightened. Perhaps without memory. Certainly without friends. In a dream world, a lost world, a world in which dark is light and evil is good, perhaps. You think, Ellat. What else can we do?" 

"From here?" 

"Yes. From here. Water those flowers, will you? She wouldn'thave left them like that. Open the window. She would have done that." Oh, God Zurvan, he prayed, let me undo the harmI have done. I was the one not to tell her what pit of evil Isensed in that box of hers. I was the one who begged her tocome to Wanderly, not valuing her own instincts which badeher stay far from her so-called kin. I was the one who consideredthe threat not urgent, not imminent. God. 

Where would one like Madame send one like Marianne? What kind of world would she construct, of her own soul, of her own being? Where would one like Marianne be sent? Intowhat place? Into which of the myriad borderlands? How constrained, how held? He lay down upon Marianne's bed, quietly,quietly, letting what he knew of Tahiti possess him until it became more real than himself. Where? Where? Where? 

Ellat came to the door of the room, apparently unsurprisedto see him lying there. "Can you tell me what you are going to do?" 

He reached out a hand to her, clasping her own, beggingher trust and indulgence. She released him, sighing. 

How could he describe to her the almost instinctive tastingof ambience, the intuitive sorting through of words and ideasand pictures? Marianne had been sent, and that sending hadhad to be, by its very nature, within the structure of Marianne'srelationship to Madame, within the ambience of their milieu.He had only to feel his way into that vicinage, into what wasalready there; he had only to seek that faintly diplomatic tinge,the flavor of embassies and foreign places, the sourness ofartifice, the stink of deception, the thin, beery scent of solitude and cold rooms, the presence of children—no! The presenceof the childlike. The shadow of malevolence hovering. Withinthat, something being built, constructed, changed, for Marianne's own persona would demand that. Courage. There wouldbe courage. Stubbornness. A kind of relentless perseverance in survival. 

Withal, there would power, Madame's power, Madame'scontrol, hidden, perhaps, or disguised, but there nonetheless.Madame's colors, ebony and blood. Marianne's colors, mauveand plum and misty blue found rarely if at all. Would there beanything there of Harvey? Unlikely. Though he might think ofhimself as an important part of this challenge, in reality he wasno more to Madame than was Marianne herself, a part of thebait. 

He lay there, breathing his way into the precincts of illusion,finding the border of dream as he would have found the spoorof a deer in the forest of Alphenlicht, slowly, with infinite caution, summoning it, moving breath by breath so as not toshatter the silence or betray his presence, disguising his own form, changing to blend into the place he would find himself,that otherwhere, that hinterland where he would find her, find her, find her.... 

Ellat, watching, saw him sink into trance, fade before her eyes into an effigy, lifeless as stone, betrayed only by theshallow, infrequent breaths which misted the mirror she heldbefore his lips. A grunt from the doorway made her turn.Aghrehond stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, panting asthough he had run for miles. "I will go with him," he said.

"Hondi. He did not ask—" 

"Ellat, he does not ask. I will go with him. He may needsomeone. He may need someone to stay in there when he comesback, for he cannot stay. That is what she wants, that Lubovoskan. She wants him lost in the false worlds, but he is too wise for that. I will go. Shush now." And he went back into the living room to lie down there, hands folded on his chest,sinking at once into a sleep both as profound and as disturbingas that which held Makr Avehl. 

Deep into the night the light glowed in the upper windowas Ellat's figure passed and passed again and the search went on. 




MARIANNE, LIKE THE others in the pensione, made daily visitsto the embassy. It was only a short walk, through the carnival ground and the phantom zoo, along the city wall to the Gatesof Darius—not cleaned yet, though the scaffolding had been rigged against the ruddy stones for several seasons, and teamsof dwarves were brought in from time to time to swarm up the ladders and peck away at the archway—then onto the Avenueof Lanterns. She thought that they must keep changing the avenue. When she had first visited the embassy, she remembered the avenue as quite broad and straight, the lanterns honestconstructions of amber glass and bronze. Now the way curvedto make room for the new tiled pool they were building, and the lights had been replaced with scattered braziers which leftmuch of the roadway in darkness, the footing treacherous among chips of marble, chisels, mallets, and discarded cola cans themasons had left. Of course, reaching the embassy in the moming light was only a matter of watching one's step, but thereturn always seemed to occur after darkness had fallen, which made the return trip difficult though not, Marianne remindedherself constantly, impossible. Marianne went to the embassy 

at least every other day, religiously, in the constant hope thatsome message would have arrived concerning her, or some quota would have been changed to allow her an exit visa.Everyone at the pensione, of course, existed in the same hope.

The woman who could have come from Lubovosk had pointedout, with laughter, what a vain hope that was. "Those of us from Lubovosk already have our visas," she had said, fixingMarianne with her cold, imperious eye in which that taint ofmad laughter always hung like a pale moon over a cemetery."Those of us who know the rales know the way. Those of usin favor with the ambassador. You, on the other hand, are unlikely to receive permission to leave. You are obviously a native, a borderlander." The way she said it was a venomousrevelation to Marianne, a metempiric bombshell which seemedto make the matter certain forever. Of course they would nothelp her at the embassy. Of course the quota would not includeher. Of course they would be moved to neither pity nor mercy.Not for a borderlander, a creature of quiet-gray, still-dun ghost-ness. 

She had thought to apologize to the woman who could havecome from Lubovosk, but the words caught in her throat, soshe had put her glass of Madeira on the harpsichord (worryinglater that it might have left a ring) and let herself out of thecrowded apartment. Behind her the surf of conversation ebbed and flowed, falling into silence as she climbed the echoingstairs to her own room. It had been a mistake to go to the reception. Probably they had meant to invite someone else,and the invitation had been put under her door by mistake.

Her room was cold, the dirty casements opened wide to aview of the nearer roofs and the farther towers. Sun lay uponthe streets, rare as laughter, enough to start a ridiculous upwelling of hope, like a seeping spring under ashes. She snatchedup her coat to drag it over her arms as she ran down theclattering stairs of the pensione, past the landing where theyhad found the old man dead, his pockets stuffed with appealsto the ambassador, past the room where the woman who couldhave come from Lubovosk and her guests still talked, into thefrigid entrance hall with its lofty ceiling and frosty mirrors, and out into the bright, dusty streets where the children fromeverywhere gathered to play. She wondered, as she had before, 

why they gathered in this street rather than some other. Theybroke before her like drops of mercury, only to flow together behind her and go on with their games, a fevered intensity ofplay. She could feel their impatience, their hot ardor, sizzlingin the dust. 

She wondered which of them, if any of them, had been bornhere in the borderland? Surely none. No one remembered beingborn here. There were no natives to this place, despite whatthe woman who could have come from Lubovosk had said. They had come, all of them, as Marianne had come, interlopers, strangers, unacclimatized to this place or this time. Marianneknew there must have been somewhere else. "Cibola," she chanted to herself. "Rhees. New York. Camelot. Broceliande. Persepolis. Alphenlicht." All of these were places beyond theborder. "I could have come from there," she whispered rebelliously. "I could. I know I could."

Hands thrust deep into her pockets, she started down towardthe river wharves, toward a place full of light and the complaint of gulls. If the sun were an omen, if hope were not dead, ifthere were still reason to go on—well, then Macravail mightbe there. Perhaps they would go to the phantom zoo, feed dream shreds to the tame ghosts. Perhaps he would give her another present from the flea market, perhaps a book with stories about other places. Perhaps he would not. One never knew with Macravail. 

She found him sitting, as he often did, upon a bollard, perched like some ungainly bird, thin to the point of ropiness, every corner of him busy with bones. She gentle-voicedhim, knowing his horror of shrillness, and he turned in one flowing motion to stare at her from huge, lightless eyes whichseemed to see only shadows where she saw light and lightwhere she saw shadows. "Marianne," his voice caressed her. "Will you share my sun?"

The question she answered was not the one he had justasked. Squatting beside him on the wharf, she said, "I don't think I'll go to the embassy anymore." He had suggested toher again and again that it was a waste of time, gently, persistently. "I keep thinking of the old man."

"What old man was that?" 

"The old man who died in the place I live. He'd been going 

to the embassy forever. He never got out. The woman from Lubovosk says I'll never get out."

"But she urges you to go to the embassy."

"Yes." Marianne was unable to consider the fundamental dilemma this implied. It was true. The woman who could havecome from Lubovosk urged everyone to go to the embassy. Always. The thought led her into a gray, fuzzy area whichitched at the edges and hurt in the middle. She could not thinkof it, even though she knew Macravail would be disappointed.She changed the subject. "Did you take your dog to the witch wife?" 

"It did no good at all." Macravail's voice was grave andsorrowful, the edges of his mouth under the white moustacheturned down. "I thought at first it had helped. For a time he seemed better, and we even walked to Leather Street and boughta new leash, but last night while we slept all his hair fell out.He is bald now, like a wineskin." He pointed to the shadowswhere a bloated shape murfled to itself, shiny and hard as asoccer ball. 

Marianne sighed. They had spent half their substance forseveral seasons—surely it had been several seasons—on Macravail's dog, yet the poor beast seemed no better. She could not bear to see Macravail grieve over him. "Why don't weplant on him?" she suggested desperately. "Mixed grasses. We'll tie the seeds on with gauze and water him night and morning."

So that is what they did that day while the sun dribbled intothe streets in shiny puddles and processions wound about onthe city walls and heralds rode toward the gates making brassy sounds of challenge. When they had planted Macravail's dog—more complicated than she had thought it would be, for thegauze tended to slip—they went to the phantom zoo, but itwas too late to feed the ghosts and they ended up eating thedream shreds themselves. 

When he left her at the door, he reminded her of the morning's resolution. "You promised not to consent to go to theembassy anymore." She asked him why he cared, knowing he could not, or would not, tell her. He did not, merely sniffedremotely and chewed on the corners of his moustache whilethe dog snuffled wearily at the end of the gilded leash. "I hope your dog will grow grass, Macravail," she wished him at last. 

He had forbidden her to say goodbye to him, which madeleavetaking somewhat tenuous. She was never quite sure whenhe would go or if he would go at all. When she laid her handupon the doorlatch, however, he went away, leaving her toclimb the four long flights to the cold room and the sagging bed. Evidently the reception was long over, for no sounds camefrom the woman's apartment. Sometimes Marianne did not see her for days, many long days, and she felt somehow that the woman had somewhere else to go from time to time, unlikethe rest of them. 

The next morning, however, it was the woman from Lubovosk who woke her, tapping on the door, calling, "Marianne, get up, get dressed. They're doing something new at the embassy today." Marianne almost refused to answer, almost kepther word to Macravail, but then decided that any hope wasbetter than none. She agreed to go with them after breakfast, remembering from some misty past a voice telling her she wascontrary—or was it to be contrary?—asserting her independence by refusing to hurry from the dining room even thoughthe others were shifting impatiently in the hall. The red-faced woman was there, and the two sons of the duchess. The little old woman who swept the hallways was with them as well, her eyes frightened and soft beneath the swath of veiling onher hat. Marianne had never seen her in anything but apronand dusty skirt, a tattered shawl around her shoulders, but today she wore mittens and carried a parasol above the silly hat.

"It's a pretty parasol," offered Marianne, sorry now to have kept the old thing waiting,"Everyone ought to have something," the old woman said."Don't you think so?"

The five of them moved off under the sardonic gaze of thewoman who could have come from Lubovosk. Marianne expected to hear her laugh behind them at any moment, almostas though she remembered the laughter. When she looked back from the edge of the carnival ground, however, the woman was gone. In the zoo the phantoms moved restlessly in their cages, but only Marianne glanced at the spectral arms thrustthrough the bars, begging for food. The twin sons of the duchess strode along side by side, their arms around one another's waiststo hide the fact they were joined at the lower body. When they arrived at the embassy, a fussy clerk sent them all to variousrooms and told them to wait. Marianne sat in the empty office,listening to the hopelessly frustrated buzzing of a fly against the gray glass, dirty from a hundred rains and a hundred dust storms, admitting light only through the accidental fact that thefilth was not perfectly evenly distributed. Outside lay the famed gardens of the ambassador, but Marianne could not see them.A very long time went by before one of the consular staff entered the room, a bundle of forms under one arm, to sit at the desk and begin the questions. The woman from Lubovosk had been right. The procedure was different, and yet Marianne had a feeling of horrid familiarity, as though in some other place or time she had experienced it all before.

"Have you ever healed warts?" 

Marianne could not remember having done so. "I don't thinkso," she replied, trying to keep her voice interested but unemotional. One never knew. Perhaps the tone of voice one usedwould make a difference. 

"Have you ever visited the Cave of Light or any similartourist attraction?" 

"No. I'm sure I haven't. Should I have?" 

The person stared at her coldly. "It isn't a question of should. It's a question of the quota being changed—definitions. Regulations. You know. The new system will make all that possible. Now. Do the following mean anything to you at all? Stop meif they do. Shamans? The onocratic dyad? The Cave of Light?"There was an invitational pause, but it meant nothing to Marianne. "Banshees? Sybils? Crabbigreen? Ah, that strikes a chord, does it?" 

Marianne thought it had something to Jo with lawns, butshe wasn't sure. Still, the person nodded encouragingly andcontinued with the list. "Ethnography? Harvey? Lubovosk?"

"Yes," Marianne said into the silence. "There's a woman in my pensione from there." "Tell me what you know about it," he said, silky-voiced,all at once very interested. "She's from there. You'd have to ask her. I don't know anything about it at all." "Umm. Let's see. That's schedule 42-A. Ah, here it is. Now, this will be a little different. You just tell me what comes 

to mind when I say each word. Drat. This pen is out of ink. Wait a bit. I'll be right back...." The person left the room, the door shutting behind with a swish full of finality and finish, the sound a branch makes falling from the top of a tree,falling, falling, then done, not to fall anymore because it hasreached the place beneath which there is no more down at all.

"Swish," said Marianne to herself sadly. She did not expectthe person to return. The little light which had come through the dirty glass was already fading. Time in the embassy was different from time on the outside. It was almost night, and outside in the hall the little old woman had set her parasolagainst the wall and was busy sweeping the floors. 

"I thought, since I was here already..." the woman began."We might as well go on back," said Marianne. "Perhaps we'll come again tomorrow."

Macravail was waiting for her in the street, ropy arms foldedacross his narrow chest, mouth puckered in reproach. "I thoughtyou weren't coming here anymore." She stared at her feet, unable to answer him. "The seeds sprouted," he said, pointingat the end of the leash where a fuzzy, green ball clicked alongon short legs, beady eyes peering at her from beneath grassy ears. The dog barked, a husky, friendly, convalescent sound.

"I'm glad, Macravail. It makes him look so much more comfortable. I'm sure he feels better." 

"I thought we'd take him to the fountain," said Macravail."He needs watering. Then we could buy some fruit jellies and watch the fireworks," 

Marianne could not help the slow tears which began to well from her eyes, the harsh lump which choked her. Under the curious eyes of the little old woman, she wept noisily. Macravail made no effort to comfort her, merely chewed the ends ofhis moustache and spoke soothing words to the dog.

"What's it all for?" she cried. "What good is it all? We'll eat fruit jellies and watch fireworks and tomorrow it will allbe the same. The embassy will change procedures again, but they still won't give me a visa. I'll grow old here, and die,and then they'll put me in the phantom zoo with the otherghosts, and I'll be hungry all the time. Oh, Macravail, I just want out..." 

The little old woman turned pale at this and tottered away, tap-tapping with her parasol. Marianne fumbled through her

coat pocket to find some tissues, a little sticky and shredded, 

but whole enough to dry her eyes and stop her dripping nose.

When she came to herself again, the old woman was gone,

and Macravail was crouched against the curbing as the grassy

dog peed against the lamppost.

"If you'll stop going to the embassy," he whispered, "I can get you out. Without a visa. If you really want to get out.""You can? Why haven't you said anything before? You knowI want out. More than anything." 

"People say that," he went on whispering, "when they don'treally mean it. The little old woman who was just here, she'dsay it, but she'd be terrified of it. Here is familiar, alwayschanging, but familiar. Here is almost forever. Here is customand endless circles turning. Here is nothing truly strange. There is nothing here but what is here, Marianne, and the only wayout is out, no guarantees, no safety. Some are better off here,Marianne." 

"How can you say that? Nothing ever happens here! Nothingever changes!""New fountains along the avenue. New carvings on the gate."

"But as soon as they're finished, they'll change it again.They do that. Everything is always changed, but nothing is ever different. I want it to be different. I want you to get me out." 

"If you really want to," he said with an intensity she hadnot heard from him before, "I can't advise it, or urge it. It has to be your decision."

"I want to," she said firmly, thrusting the soggy tissues backinto her pocket. "I want to. What do I have to do?" "Just tell me where you want to go. That's all. You tell me,and I'll take you there."

"I want to cross the border." 

"Where do you want to cross? Into where? There's a crossingin a pasture just outside the walls. There's a crossing under the wharf we sat on yesterday. There's a crossing where the dwarvescome in, and one where the heralds go out. Where do you wantto cross?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"You have to choose and consent, Marianne. You can move, change, get from this place to another place, so long as you choose and consent. Each place has rules of its own. That's the rule here. I can only help you if you choose and consent." 

She chewed her lip, felt the hard lump rising in her throatonce more. "Won't you decide for me, Macravail?"

He shook his head slowly, a pendulum slowly ticking, a mechanical motion as though he had been wound up. She couldalmost hear the slow toc-toc-toc as his head went from side to side. "No. I can't do that. And if you talk to anyone about it, I can't help you at all. You tell me where you want to cross,and I'll take you there, but you must tell me." 

She fumbled with the soggy tissue again, and when she looked up it was to see Macravail and the dog disappearing around the corner far down the avenue, near the new pool.Loud into the dusk came the sound of hammers, dhang, dhang,dhang, echoing from the high walls along the street. The soundgrew louder as she moved toward home, and when she wentbeneath the arch of the gate a chip of stone fell into her collar,scratching her neck. The dwarves were at work in the flaring light of a hundred torches as the fireworks burst above themin showers of multicolored sparks. She could still hear the sounds of the hammers when she lay in her bed, trying to breathe quietly, trying not to think, trying to sleep.

Then, in the morning, she tried not to sleep, tried to castoff an overwhelming lassitude which paralyzed her will. Below her window the children played in the dusty street in a feverof intensity. Their game seemed to revolve around a small groupof slightly older children, children perhaps eleven or twelve— perhaps even a little older than that, for the loose shirt whichone of them wore clung occasionally to the swell of buddingbreasts. That one, a cloud of dark hair and wild, black eyes, was at the center of every evolution of the game, a desperateconcentration upon her face. After a time of watching them,Marianne put on her old coat and went down the stairs, throughthe cold hall and onto the shallow steps which fronted the pensione. There she sat, nibbling a cuticle, watching. Each turn in the game brought the central group somewhat nearer. Finally, when the sun was almost overhead, the cloud-hairedgirl was so close that Marianne could have touched her. Instead, moved by some urge she could not have identified, she said,"If someone told you they could get you out without a visa,what would you think of that?" 

The girl turned on her with a fiery look. "So what? Any of us can do that." 

"You know where the crossing places are?"

"Hah." It was a whispered sneer. "Since I was^here. Since I could walk. I know them all, even the ones that haven't been used in a hundred years. All the kids do." 

"Then why don't you—emigrate?"

The girl stared at her insolently. For a time Marianne thoughtshe would not answer, but at last her expression softened andshe put out a hand to touch Marianne's face. "You're all mistyin the head, aren't you? Younger than I am, for all you seemolder. They change, you know. A place might be a good gatefor a while, then it would become a bad gate. You get througha bad gate, you might not be able to play your way out, youknow? You have to work it out, play it out. That's what we'redoing. Playing the gates. Patterning them. When the right pattern comes, then I'm next. I can tell you because I'm next,and I won't be here much longer." Seeing the incomprehensionin Marianne's face, she continued. "There aren't any good gatesfor grown-ups. Only for kids. That's why I have to get outright away, before... you know. Don't tell!" For a moment the voice was that of someone Marianne knew, then the voice of an anguished child, then the dark-haired girl was swungback into the frenzy of the game. Marianne returned to her room, thinking she should wash her face before lunch. Bent over the basin she heard a shout go up from the children, butwhen she hastened to the window there was nothing to see. 

The cloud-haired girl was gone, but she could have gonehome for lunch. Marianne held that thought resolutely throughthe noon meal, through her afternoon nap, through the pre-dinner cocktail hour which the woman from Lubovosk insisted all the residents attend, and which she herself attended, todayfull of some obscure fury which Marianne made no effort toidentify. After dinner the children were still hard at play, butthe cloud-haired girl was not among them. Marianne went toher room to put a pack of tissues in her pocket with her comb and, after some thought, the little book of stories Macravail had given her. She had not read many of the stories nor understood those she had read. "Something," she whispered to herself. "Everyone should have something."

She went into the evening and to the river. Macravail was there. Beside him the grassy dog was digging wildly into acrevasse between two stones, whurffling as he did so. Mariannesat down beside Macravail and watched the dog until it gave up the search and lay down with a bursting sigh beside them."Tell me where all the crossings are," she said. "Tell me wherethey all are, Macravail." Then, as he did so, she wrote each one down on a page of the book, each on a different page. When she had finished, the stars had come out. Taking a deepbreath, she opened the book at random. The nearest lights werein the carnival ground, dim and distant. She made it out withdifficulty. "The alley behind the bird market. Let's go there now, Macravail." 

They went the long way 'round, skirting the fruit market andthe street of the metal workers. They passed the back wall ofthe embassy, hearing over the wall the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of laughter—the woman from Lubovosk'slaughter. The alley behind the bird market was a narrow one,lit by a single gaslight. When they stood at the end of it, Marianne could see the door clearly, though she thought it hadnot been there when they entered the alley.

"Through there," said Macravail. She turned to see his facedrawn up in an expression part pain, part hope, part despair."Through there."

"I have to go," she pleaded. "You do understand, Macravail? I can't stay. I can't go on forever like the little old woman,like the sons of the duchess. I have to have a difference, Macravail. Come with me." 

"No," he said unaccountably. "You're safer alone. They maynot even know you're gone for a while. But give me something—something to remember by...."

The only thing she had was the book. The words came outpiteously, unforgiveably, before she thought. "Everyone oughtto have something...."

"Ahhh.... She had not heard Macravail wail in that waybefore, so lost, so lonely. "Give me, and I'll give you." She felt the dog's leash thrust into her hands, felt the grassy beast pressing tight against her legs as the book was withdrawn fromher hand. Then there was only the crossing to elsewhere, andthe difference came without warning. 

Makr Avehl lay on Marianne's bed, unmoving, eyes closed.On the table beside him a brazier burned. From time to time, Ellat dropped a pinch of fragrant resin into it to make a pungent smoke. Between such times she moved about, making no unnecessary noise but not trying to be silent. Aghrehond had beenstretched out on the living room floor until a few momentsbefore. One moment he had been there, as quiet as Makr Avehl,the next moment he was gone. Ellat had found her eyes brimming with tears. Aghrehond was like a brother, like a bumptious,loving son. As Marianne had been sent, so had Aghrehond been sent. Except, of course, that he had volunteered to go.

She moved back and forth between the two rooms, beingsure, tidying up. Makr Avehl would not be disturbed by heractivities; she had begun to wonder if he could be aroused byanything at all. Outside the drawn curtains the evening bloomedviolet with dusk, mild and springlike.

"Ellat?" She heard the indrawn breath. 

"Here, Makr Avehl. Hold still. I've kept tea hot for you."She slipped her arm beneath his head and brought the steamingcup to his lips as he sipped and sipped again, breathing deeplyas from some great exertion. 

"I found her." "I knew you would, if anyone could. Was it as you thought,in some borderland world of Madame's?" 

"Yes. A black world, of Black Madame. Oh, Ellat, but I will have vengeance on that one. Marianne is nothing to her,nothing at all, but she took her up like a boy picking an apple, only to throw it away after one bite. Bait. Using her to baitme. She hopes to throw me off balance. To make me commit foolishness, risk my people, risk the Cave. She plays a deep and dangerous game, that one."

"She tried our defenses once before. I do not think she is eager to try them soon again. She mocks at the Cave, but shecould not break its protection." 

"No. She prefers to bait me with my innocent kinswoman.Well, she was ignorant of much, was Madame. Certainly she did not think I knew Marianne well enough to follow whereshe had sent Marianne, to follow and let her out of Madame's place into one of her own. Madame may learn soon that Marianne is gone from her limbo, but she will not know where.We start even, then, neither of us knowing where she is." He laughed harshly before sipping again at the tea, swung his feetover the side of the bed and rose. "I must try to make a call to Alphenlicht."

"Everything will be packed by now. We can go tonight."

"I wish we could go. I need the Cave of Light, Ellat. I needthe Cave and our people. But if I am ever to find Marianne,it has to be from here." 

"Aghrehond?"

"I sent him after her. Poor thing. Everything is twisted whereshe is, names and people and places and times. All moves asin disguise, strangely warped. In this world of Madame's thepitiable emigre's have no memory of what they were, or onlyfragments. All has been wiped away. Nothing could wipe hercharacter, of course, and the courage shines through like a little star. Still, she suffers under it." 

"You say Aghrehond is with her. Where?"

He laughed, a short bark of vicious laughter, at her, at himself, at the world. "Lord of Light, Ellat, that's why I needthe Cave. I don't know where she has gone. The only way outfrom the border worlds is into one's own world. She went into her own place, one of her own places—I don't know howmany there may be. If she was a woman of some imagination,there might be thousands. Or perhaps only one. Whichever it may be, I must find her. I must find her." 

"What will you do?" She was hushed before his vehemence,a little awed by it, thinking she had not seen him like thisbefore, not over a woman. 

He sighed. "I will eat something, if you can find somethinghere or bring something from that place on the boulevard. I'll take a shower. That place made me feel slimy. I'll call—who?Who would be best? Nalavi? Cyram? Since I can't go to theCave, they must do it for me. I'll call some of our people at the embassy and set them on Harvey's trail, and on Tahiti's. Iwant to know where they are in this world, if they are here atall. And then I'll try to think what to do next." 

Outside Marianne's window the pink leaves of the oak uncurled like tiny baby hands, gesturing helplessly at the worldbeyond. The curtains remained closed. Downstairs, Mrs. Winesap turned in her half sleep, sat up suddenly to say to Mr.Larkin, "Did you hear that? What was that?" To be answeredonly by a snore, a riffle of wind. Unsatisfied, she lay back down to sleep. There was the sound of a car driving away, then returning. Feet moved restlessly over their heads. Then silence, only silence. The house was still, still, as though waiting. 




MARIANNE'S DESK WAS on an upper level of the library as werethose of the assistant librarians, but not, as theirs were, uponthe balcony itself. There a contentious writhing of brass madea lacoonish barrier between the desks and the gloomy gulf ofair extending more than four stories from the intricate mosaicsof the lobby floor to the green skylight far above. Marianne's space was sequestered in a trough of subaqueous shadow atthe deep end of an aisle of shelves, the only natural light leakinggrudgingly upon her from between splintered louvers of thecurved window set some distance above her head. This eye-shaped orifice looked neither in nor out, but Marianne oftenglanced up at it in the fancy it had just blinked to let in sometantalizing glimmer from outside. To this wholly inadequateillumination she had added a lamp discovered in one of thevacant basement rooms, a composition of leaden lavender andgrayed green in the form of an imaginative flower. Such lightas it allowed to escape outward was livid and inauspicious, but that which fell on the desk top puddled a welcoming amberreminiscent of hearth fires or brick kilns, comforting and industrious. By this liquid glow she found her way to and from 

her desk at night when all the balcony was dark, the aisles ofbooks blacker tunnels yet, and the only movement except forher own the evanescent ghosts reflected through the wide glassdoors from the windshields of passing cars.

After making an effort to leave the library every night forsome little time, she had resolved not to try to leave for a while.The attempts had become increasingly frustrating, and she feltit might be easier to give up the effort, at least temporarily.She resolved to accept the necessity of washing out her underwear and collar in the staff washroom. She made a brief prayer of thanks that her appetite had never been large and wasnow easily placated by a few of the stale biscuits kept in thestaff tea room. These biscuits never seemed to grow more or less stale, and their quantity remained constant in the slant-topped jar. When the jar was turned in a certain fashion, the tin lid caught light falling from street lamps through the highwindow to reflect it upon the dusty couch where she slept.

During the first several evenings, Marianne had turned onthe lights in the basement room, flooding it with a harsh,uncompromising emptiness more threatening than the dark. Thelight brought persons to gather mothlike at the window wherethey crouched on the ground to peer down at her and whisperof books; the stealing of books, the destruction of books. Whenshe turned off the lights, they went away, or so she thought,for the whispers ended and no shadows moved at the barredwindow. Thereafter, she used the lights only in the washroom,which had no windows, or upon her desk, so deeply hidden among the corridors of volumes that no ray could have betrayedher to watchers. 

On each of the first several afternoons, rather late, Marianne had been sent on an errand of one kind or another: to take books to a room in the sub-basement; to find books in the fourth floor annex; to take papers to the special collection room onthe mezzanine—all of them places difficult to find or returnfrom. She had been at first surprised and later angered to findall the staff gone when she returned, the doors locked tight,the outside visible only through the vast, chill slabs of glass in the main entry. Each evening at this time it rained, glossingthe pavements and translating the sounds of cars into sinisterhisses which combined with the tangle of brass railings to make her think of feculent pits aswarm with serpents. It was better to go back to her desk, to that single warm light, to work thereuntil weariness made it impossible to work any longer, than tostay in the chilly chasm of the lobby beside those transparentbut impassable doors.

When both darkness and weariness overcame her, she felt her way down the wide marble flight, carefully centered inorder not to touch the railings, around the comer to the smalldoor—discouragingly labeled "Authorized Personnel Only"—then down the pit-black funnel of the basement stairs to thewashroom and light. From there it was only a step or two tothe tea room where panties and collar could be laid wet uponthe table, wrinkles smoothed; where a handful of biscuits could serve for supper, washed down by a mouthful of cold tea; wherethe tin-topped jar could be turned to beam its pale blot ontothe place she would sleep; and to dream of dusty wings beatingagainst glass. She always folded her trousers over the back ofa chair, thankful for the plain, dark uniform which did not showdirt or wrinkles. 

At first light she wakened, terrified that she might haveoverslept and be about to be caught in semi-nakedness, remnants of dream catching at her to drag her back into sleep.After washing and dressing herself she became calmer, able tohide in the washroom and emerge when others arrived, as though she herself had just come to work. Some member of the staff always brought rolls, sometimes fruit, though whetherthis was done spontaneously or by arrangement Marianne neverknew. The provender made up the larger part of her day's food,and she had learned to sneak an extra roll or second orange to hide in her desk. At 8:50 the assistant librarians reported to thehead librarian, a single line of them neatly clad in the samewhite-collared uniform which cost Marianne so much anxiety.Many shadowy figures, Marianne among them, watched this assembly from above while the roll was called to the accompaniment of dignified banter suitable to the profession, and finally to the clang and thwock of bolts withdrawn from thetop and bottom of the main doors. 

Usually one or more patrons waited outside, strolling abouton the brick paved portico or leaning against the glass to peerwithin through cupped hands at the lobby clock. Then the staff members trooped upstairs to their desks, the doors began swinging as patrons entered, and the day began.

Though none of the staff ever spoke to her directly, Marianne was not conscious of any ostracism. There was such indirectionin the affairs of the library that she believed no one really spoketo anyone else, ever. Information seemed always to be conveyed in passive statements. "The door to the muniments roomneeds to have a hinge repaired" rather than "Mr. Gerald, pleaserepair the hinge." This inherent passivity had much to do withthe fact, thought Marianne, that the door to the munimentsroom was not repaired for days although its need for repair hadbeen plaintively stated half a dozen times. Thus, Marianne might be given some task by a half-aborted gesture from anassistant librarian directing her attention to a small pile of bookswhile a statement was directed somewhere over her left shoulder, "Those should be in the sub-basement storage area," or"There's space in the shelves of the Alchemy stacks for those."Mr. Gerald, an insouciant figure who arrived occasionally tohave long, confidential talks with the head librarian or thedoorman, seemed oblivious to these gentle requests. Mariannewondered why she, almost alone among the staff, always actedupon these indirect requirements when virtually all the othersseemed able to ignore them completely.

She also asked herself what the staff did all day. Thoughthere was a constant movement to and fro, a flutter of paper and a wheeling of carts about, no one ever seemed to bringbooks in or take them out. She thought at first it might be thekind of library which was devoted to research on the premises,full of important works and rare volumes. This thought wouldhave been comforting, but she could not reconcile the idea withthe actual subject matter of many of the books on the shelves.Some were of an obscenity she found shocking; others lackedsense; some had pictures so vile that she had to cover the pageswhile working away with her mending tape and glue. Therewere always loose backs to be fastened on securely, notes to be erased from margins, pages to be mended, labels to belettered and affixed. Each morning a cart of such work awaitedher arrival at her desk, and each afternoon the cart disappeared,taken away by one of the porters, she supposed, though shehad never actually seen it happen. Upon this constant maintenance work were imposed the errands, obliquely stated. "Someperiodicals in the Sorcery section need to go to storage." "Theyneed a binder clamp up in Thaumaturgy." The same diffidencewhich undoubtedly prevented the assistant librarian from directly ordering Marianne to do these things also preventedMarianne from questioning them. Once she woke late at nightwith the words, "Where in hell am I to find a binder clamp!" upon her tongue, only to flush and curl more tightly into herselfupon the couch. To have spoken those words aloud would have been to break some fragile pretense upon which the library andMarianne's whole existence depended.

She spent much time carrying books away to the sub-basements, adding them to the endless, tottery stacks which filledcorridor after corridor of rooms. When books were sent to storage, they had faded almost to monochrome, page and printalike in yellowed tan, the print a mere shadow of fading lines.She never found the bottommost of the sub-basements. Her imagination told her that the rooms of faded books rankeddownward forever, into infinity. Some of the rooms nearer ground level held a clutter of miscellany which might havebeen left over from a time when some other occupant had usedthe building.

In one room a line of dress forms stood along a wall, voluptuous bosoms thrust in various directions like the snouts ofquesting animals, turtles perhaps, hunting food in the dim underwater light. Another room held cases of stuffed birds, parrotsand lyre birds and toucans, and still another was almost filledwith broken furniture. In this room she found a dusty blueblanket which looked almost unused. She beat it free of dust before carrying it to her couch, sighing with contentment. Whilethe room was warm enough, there had been something indecentand dangerous about sleeping half naked with no cover. Theblanket became her walls and doors at once. She ate her biscuits while stroking it and curled up beneath it early in the eveningto savor the scratchy security of it next to her face. That nightshe slept without waking, and when she did waken, much laterthan usual, it was with the dream clear in her memory. She had been collecting butterflies, huge, brilliant insects whichfluttered away before her net only to be captured and thrustinto her collection jar where they beat their wings against the 

confining glass, shedding the delicate powder from their wings,breaking the membranes, becoming motionless. Then she hadbeen in the jar with them, feeling the feathery blows of thosewings as they beat and beat against the glass, seeing the rainbowdust which fell from them onto her own bare arms and shoulders and breasts so that she became as brilliantly colored as they.She lay for a long time thinking of this dream, slow tears gathering beneath her eyelids.

Eventually, she rose, folded the blanket lengthwise, and hidit beneath the cushions. Several times during the day she wentto the tea room to see if it was still there. She slept with it close around her every night thereafter.

Some time after this one of the assistant librarians spoke tothe air across Marianne's shoulder saying that Mr. Grassi wouldbe researching certain literature in the small reading room laterin the day. Later the same person, still speaking to the vacantand unresponsive air, said that Mr.Grassi would need the booksreserved for him in the thaumaturgy section. Marianne understood this to mean that she should find the books in Thaumaturgy and deliver them to Reading. As was the case with most locations in the building, both Thaumaturgy and Reading were uncertain. She was sometimes amazed that she alwaysseemed to be able to get to any place indicated by these obliqueinstructions. This time she referred to the large chart hangingbehind the head librarian's desk and was able to puzzle out aroute to and from. She was approaching the small reading roomwhen she heard the doorman say behind her, "Good afternoon,Mr. Grassi," and was able to follow the strange hunched figurethus addressed as it moved between two stacks and through the half hidden door. She caught the door as it closed and entered. 

He was seated at the round table set in an arc of window, peering through the one transparent pane at the narrow viewof the garden outside. Tattered lilies bloomed there under thelash of a cold wind, and the man's head nodded in time with their nodding as though the wind blew him as well. When she put the books at his elbow, he turned to look directly into hereyes. "The books I ordered?" he asked.

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she was aware of them, 

pouring across her face in forked runnels, wetting the sides ofher nose, the corners of her mouth, dripping untidily from her chin. She fumbled for a tissue, blotting her face, apologizingwhile Mr. Grass! engaged in a strange little dance of compassion which he wove about her out of pats and pokes and jigging steps. 

"I'm sorry," she said angrily. "I don't know what got into me." 

He had pulled out a chair for her, bumping it into her legsfrom behind with such vigor that she fell into it. "My dear, my dear," he said, emphasizing each word with another pat ofhis pawlike little hands. "Please don't cry, my dear."

Marianne wiped away another freshet, confused by the troubled face before her. His mouth was open, the tip of his tongueshowing at one side of it in an expression of such comical anddoggy concern that she almost laughed. "You looked directlyat me," she sobbed. "They don't do that here. They don't seeme." And having said this she was aware for the first time ofits truth. Indeed. They did not see her; they did not see oneanother. They lived, if this was living, and worked and were without true knowledge of one another, acting at every momentin the faith, perhaps only the hope, that others were there, butwithout the evidence of it. Perhaps it was only that things did,eventually, happen in response to their expressed hopes or needswhich made them believe that others were present, that othersheard, saw, felt, did. "They don't see me!" she asserted again,"But you did. It made me cry!"

Unaware of her revelation, he attempted comfort which shedid not need. Their mutual incomprehension straggled intosilence. He sat looking at her, tongue still caught between histeeth as though it were too long to be completely withdrawn.Marianne blotted herself dry and said, "The people here at thelibrary do not look at one. I realize now that they can't. Butit's nerve-wracking never to be noticed, seen. So, when youdid, I was so grateful to know that I'm actually here." 

He shook his head, not in confusion or negation, but asthough in commiseration. "But of course you are here, mydear. That's the whole thing, isn't it. You are here, and wedon't want you here at all." They both subsided after this. She 

did not feel she had explained, and she had not understoodwhat he had just said, but they were convinced of one another'sgood will.

"May I get you anything else?" she asked, suddenly conscious of her position as staff.

"Not at all. We have the two I asked for: Doing and Undoing, and here is Macravail's To Hold Forever. Macravail is the authority on malign enchantment, of course." He tipped hishead to one side so that his eyes were almost above one another as he regarded her from this strange angle. "Can I do anythingfor you?" This offer, the last word whispered in an intenselyconfidential tone, caught her so by surprise that she shook herhead, saying, no, no, not at all, before she realized she couldhave said, yes, of course, you can help me escape. But the moment had passed, he had turned to the books and was nowreading while one finger tap-tapped at the page. The pictureon the page was familiar, and Marianne stared at it for a longtime over his shoulder before creeping out and away to herown place to work there while the light from the window swungslowly from right to left as the morning gave way to late afternoon. The inevitable errand materialized to take her to the fourth mezzanine just before the doors were locked, but afterward she did not go either to her desk or to the tea room.

Instead, moved by some obscure impulse she could not haveexplained, she went back to the reading room where Mr. Grassi had spent the day. The room was empty, the books lying onthe table. She took up the one titled To Hold Forever, thinking to take it to her own desk for a while. Through the single transparent pane of the window she saw persons gathering inthe garden, pushing through the shrubbery to crowd at the sideof the building to lie down there with their heads and shouldershidden. She knew then that the staff tea room lay immediatelybelow this room and that the persons gathered outside were those who peered so greedily in upon her if she was unwaryenough to leave the lights on. From above they looked ominous,bulky and amorphous, as though constructed of shadows. Shedid not attract their attention as she took the book away.

At her own desk she turned the pages one by one but wasunable to find the familiar picture. Faces stared at her from the pages, demon faces, ordinary faces, bulky forms like those inthe garden, long pages of incomprehensible words. She left the book in the reading room before she went downstairs.Evidently the page she sought was one only Mr. Grassi couldfind. She did not find this idea at all surprising.

She was waiting for him when he arrived the next day asshe had somehow known he would. She blocked the aisle leading to the reading room, giving him no room to walk aroundher, ready for the question she had known he would ask. "Is there anything I can do for you?" to which she replied, "Willyou open the book for me, please?" It was not quite what shehad planned to say, but it was close enough.

He led her into the room, opened the book upon the table,holding it with one hand as he guided her own to the heavy pages. "It won't stay open unless you hold it," he said. He waited patiently for her to refuse or ask other questions, butshe had done what she planned to do and could think of nothingelse. He left her then, and she sat in his place at the table to examine the picture of herself, seated on the couch in the tearoom, the light falling dimly through the high, barred window. The text on the facing page began, "Her desk was on an upperlevel of the library, as were those of the assistant librarians,but not, as theirs were, upon the balcony itself..." It went on,ending at the bottom of the page, "But she had done what sheplanned to do and could think of nothing else."

She could not believe what she had read, dared not close the book or turn the page. She read it again and yet again, notneeding to have read it at all.

She was brought to her sense of time by a scratching at thewindow which proved to be one of the shadowy peerers, evidently balanced upon the shoulders of one of his fellows topress half his face against the transparent glass and stare in ather, mouth making fish motions, words she could not lip readand wanted not to hear. Holding the book carefully open with one hand, Marianne turned out the light. A muttering outsidethe window became a crashing sound and a louder shoutingthen with tones of anger. The peerer-in had fallen. She sat for a long time without being able to make up her mind whetherto take the book to her own desk or to carry it down to her couch or leave it where it was. In the end she did none of these, merely sat where she was, staring blankly at the walluntil she fell asleep sitting upright to wake in the dim gray ofmorning now knowing where she was. When Mr. Grassi camein, much later, to take the book from her, she was so crampedshe could hardly stand.

This time she was completely ready for his question, analmost hysterical readiness hi which her answer nearly precededhis question. "Can I do anything for you?" was uttered almost simultaneously with "Help me! For God's sake, help me!" 




"MY DEAR," HE SAID, "I will, of course, if I may."

Much later Marianne was to wonder at his choice of words, his saying "If I may," rather than "If I can." At the moment, she heard only the "I will, of course," and let herself fall uponthese words as a starving animal upon food, ravenous andunheeding of any other thing. She hung upon his arm while hepatted at her, still panting, tongue protruding at the corner ofhis mouth, eyes full of seemingly uncomprehending concern.

It was this expression which told her he did not know whatshe needed or wanted, and that she must go further than shehad gone in imagination or all her efforts would be lost. She must define the inexplicable, demand assistance for a conditionwhich she could not define. "I am not mad," she said tentatively. "Truly, I am not mad."

No, his expression seemed to say, of course not. You aredistressed, only distressed. It was not enough. 

"I cannot get out of the library," she said. "I can't get out.Please, do not think I'm crazy when I tell you this. It's true. I cannot escape. Help me." There, it was said, and nothingshe could add to it or take from it would make it clearer. 

He moved away from her, his dancing little feet carryinghim in short, jigging steps to the window and, from it, to thebookshelves and, from them, to the mantlepiece—the readingroom had a large and ornate mantle stretching elegant gilt andinlays above a mingy gas fire—and from it, warbling a littleaggrieved sound, like a frustrated cricket caught in a dilemmaof its own making. At last he came to rest in the bowed window,bent forward a little to peer through the one clear pane, handsbehind him as he rocked upon his heels and toes, up and downagain, like some children's toy sent into ceaseless motion bya restless hand. 

"The answers to everything are in the books," he said to her. "It is in knowing which books, of course, and where tolook. Most of the people in this city cannot get into the library, you understand that?" He cast her a sharp, questioning look,began to warble again.

"I read the book you opened for me," she said stubbornly,wondering if he were testing her or would question her uponthe contents of that book. "I did read it." 

"Of course. And I'm sure the answer is there. Would youlike for me to open it again?" He turned to meet her silence,her baffled quiet which hid bursting volcanos of weary rebellionand panic.

"It wasn't," she whispered. 'Truly it wasn't. It was onlymy story. Mine. And I already know it."

'Tsk. Well, we often say we know things when we are onlyfamiliar with them, you know. My dear, I have spent all thetime today that is safe. Let me give you my card. When youhave read again, I'm sure you'll find it useful. You will find me there any morning. It may be dangerous to be on the streetsafter noon. Let me open the book for you again and settle youcomfortably, so. Now I must run." 

And she was seated once again as she had been for a dayand a night, the light of the brass table lamp upon the pictureof her own face staring up from the basement room. She couldsee every detail of that room; the couch, the floor, the highbarred window with the faces in it, the tea urn, the jar of stalebiscuits. Even on the page their staleness was manifest, partof the design intended by the artist, part of the story. The 

staleness was intentional, as was the dust, the stuffed birds in the basement, the writhing railings beside the stairway. Underher fingers was the card he had given her. Cani Grassi, Consultant, Eight Manticore Street. The card was very heavy, morelike metal than paper, with a design embossed upon its back.She ran her fingers over it, feeling a glow, a warm tinglingwhich grew as she pressed the card to her face then thrust itdown her neck, safe beneath a strap. Gradually the warmthdied, though she could feel the pressure of the card against herskin, the sharp demarcation of comers beside her breast bone.

She sat until dark, staring at the window, caught in a timelesseddy of despair which allowed no movement or thought. Then the faces pressed against the pane in the window drew herattention and sent her into a spasm of weary revulsion. She turned out the light and made her way to the washroom, thebook still open in her hands. She sat in one of the cubicles, her trousers around her knees, to read the story again and again.There was nothing new in it. When her eyes were so heavyshe could not keep them focused, she struggled through a finalsentence: "She was sometimes amazed that she always seemedto be able to get to any place indicated by these oblique instructions." Then there was only wakefulness enough left toget to her couch and stretch out upon it, the book open beneath the cushions and herself wrapped into the timeless security ofher blanket. 

When she woke, it was to remember the last thing she hadread. Her first act was to recover the book and read the sentence once again. She was sometimes amazed that she always seemedto be able to get to any place indicated by these oblique instructions. The solution was clear in her mind, including all the tortuous steps she would need to go through to accomplishit. Someone in the library must be induced to tell her thatsomething—some book, some paper, some item of equipmentwas needed outside. Outside! 

But first she had to eat, to drink, to wash herself and comb her hair, to be ordinary, customary. Even if they could not trulysee her, there must be nothing in the atmosphere at all different."I must be an ordinary ghost," she said with some cheer. "A usual ghost, giving no evidence of untoward haunting beyondthe acceptable routine." When all did, indeed, go as usual 

during the day, she was made confident enough to approachthe chart which hung behind the head librarian's desk.

The portico was on the chart. The areaway where deliveries were made was shown. The small, walled courtyard outsidethe board room was labeled. The garden outside the readingroom where she had met Cani Grassi did not appear on thechart. She had looked out at that garden, at the swath of lawn, the ragged edging of shrubbery. There was no wall, no fence,and it was not upon the chart. Marianne took comfort from this. What was not on the chart would not be a pan of thelibrary, no matter how close it lay.

And a place which did not lie on the chart would not be mentioned by any of the assistant librarians. Not today, shethought, nor tomorrow. But later—yes. Later, someone would mention it. 

That night she sat in the reading room until dark, her message carefully prepared on a sheet of paper, the light on toattract the peerers. When she heard the first sound of them, she moved to the window to hold her message against the clearpane where they could not fail to see it. "If you will put a sign out there saying NEW STORAGE AREA, I will bring yousome books." There was a confused mumbling from outside.She thought she heard the words of her message repeated in arumbling voice, then again in a higher tone with fringes ofhysteria. A confused chattering preceded a tap at the window.She moved her own paper away to see a message pressed against the pane from outside. "One book first. Book name Eternal Blood. Put out coal chute." 

She did not know the book or where it could be found nor, for that matter, where the coal chute was. Still, if they werein the building, presumably they could be found. She wrote on the back of her paper, pressed it to the pane: "I'll try."Outside was only silence. When she looked through the window, there were only the shadows thrown by the street lampsand passing cars, nothing else. Throughout all the days, weeks—perhaps longer—that she had worked in the library, she had discovered no system of indexing, no catalogue listing titles orauthors. She knew that finding the book would have to occur in the way everything in the library happened, by indirectionand repetition. Though she had little confidence in the attempt, 

having seen nothing communicated in writing heretofore, sheleft notes on various desks saying that Eternal Blood needed to be taken to the reading room. She replaced these notes atintervals, for they vanished even from desks at which no one was observed working.

She had had no great hopes for this in any case. Her bestefforts went into repetition. Whenever she found herself withinthe hearing of some other library employee, she would say ina plaintive voice that the book Eternal Blood was needed in the reading room. She set herself the goal of saying this onehundred times during the first three days, and when she wentto her rest each night it was with an honest weariness comingfrom much running about during the day to put herself within hearing of shadowy figures which seemed to dissolve from one place to another in a most unsteadying fashion. The days followed one another. Had she not observed the great length oftime it took for messages to be received and acted upon, shewould have despaired, but she had estimated it would take atleast seven or eight days for anything at all to happen. Thus itwas with some degree of surprise that she found the book inthe reading room on the fifth day after Mr. Grassi's last visit.

It lay atop the books Mr. Grassi had requested, massive,covered in black leather with lettering in red. Marianne openedit only once before shutting it with a shudder which recurredall afternoon. It was a book devoted to the subject of torment.Marianne did not ask herself what the peerers might want withit, knowing that conscience might rise out of her confusion toattack her if she thought about it. It was enough that the book was the one named, the one which might buy her a way out.

Finding the coal chute had been an easy thing in comparison,a matter of prowling the dim corridors of the sub-basement insearch of a furnace and finding a monstrous iron octopus atlast which bellowed and roared at her as she passed, emitting agonized groans and fitful breaths of fiery heat. She had creptby it fearfully, crouching under its widespread tentacles which reached out through the walls and upward into the flesh of theplace.

As she ducked beneath one of these great, hollow arms, sheheard from within it a distant, mocking chuckle carried downthrough heaven knew what floors and annexes and lofty mezzanines from some high, remote place where someone laughed.It was a derisory laugh. Had it been repeated, Marianne felt she would not have had the courage to go on, but the sounddid not come again. In a little room behind the furnace she found the coal chute, too high for her to reach until she fetcheda broken chair from the room of furniture and mounted it unsteadily to open the corroded hatch, thrust the book through, and then, half losing her balance, let the hatch fall with a dull,hideous clang like the lid of a coffin or vault.

The building fell silent, as though listening. The furnace did not roar or breathe. When Marianne crept up the stairs andinto the lobby, it was into this same ominous silence. At everydesk heads were cocked, eyes staring as though each one waitedfor motion, any motion, to identify who had been responsiblefor the sound. She did not move, merely crouched beside thedoor, as silent and unmoving as they, until someone coughedand the spell was broken. She had not been perceived, she toldherself, thankful for the first time that they simply did not seeher. 

She went to her couch that night with a sense of fruition.The next step waited on those outside, and she listened in thedark quiet to know whether they had found the book or not.It had not been dark long when she heard them cheering, aspecies of rejoicing with overtones of hysteria and despair. Thena flickering light came through the window and she knew theyhad lighted a fire. From her place she could see shadows asleaping figures capered and gamboled. Were they burning thebook? She was more pleased than otherwise to think they mighthave disposed of it, and with it whatever damage it might havedone. A daytime view of the garden affirmed her assumption,for the scars of fire were there as well as scraps of black whichshe could identify as bits of the binding, some with lines ofred lettering still visible. She paid little attention to these, forthe signboard drew her eyes, a nicely varnished board supportedby two uprights, lettered in black and gold as though by aprofessional sign painter: NEW STORAGE AREA. Very well.She planned the next step. 

But all her plans were delayed by a bustle in the library, aboiling, a throbbing of purpose as it was announced by thehead librarian that a meeting of the Library Board of Trustees was to take place within hours, short hours, perhaps on themorrow. The morning lineup of assistant librarians was throwninto confusion by this proclamation, and the usual plaintivestatement gained an immediacy of effect which Marianne had not seen before. The large double doors to the Board Roomwere opened for the first time she could remember. Books and papers which had cluttered the approach to this room werecarried away. Even Mr. Gerald arrived unannounced and was seen to carry a pile of volumes away to some other place. Theroom was cleaned and the windows opened to air it out; a fire was laid upon the hearth, one surmounted by an overmantleof such complexity to make the one in the reading room seemsimple in comparison. The activity took most of the day, duringwhich time everyone's attention was fixed and could not havebeen diverted. 

The meeting was held in the late afternoon, after all the staff had gone except the head librarian. The usual shadowyfigures which Marianne equated with porters or janitors werenowhere to be seen. She herself had considered hiding in thewashroom or the tea room, in some empty room of a subbasement, perhaps in a hidey hole hollowed out among thebroken furniture, but the thought of being hidden while this strange, new activity went on was outweighed by her need tosee and know what would occur. The juxtaposition of this meeting and the destruction of the book which she, Marianne,had put out the coal chute was significant to her. A book hadbeen burned; a meeting had been called—both notable eventsand perhaps not unconnected. At last she decided to cache herself in a far front corner of the third mezzanine, a pocketof shadow above the light of the shaded chandelier which hungone level below this to wet the lobby floor with its weak, waterylight. From this vantage point she could see the members asthey arrived, see them obsequiously, even cravenly greeted bythe head librarian. The chairman arrived last of all, and Marianne heard the head librarian say, "Good evening, MadameDelubovoska..." 

The drawling voice which answered filled the lobby, ascended to the green skylight far above, moved inexorably outward from the place of utterance to the balcony edges, thrustthrough the banisters to flow into the aisles of books, soaking each volume in turn so that the very bindings became redolentwith that sound, not echoing but vibrating nonetheless in areverberating hum larger than the building itself, a seeking pressure which left no corner unexplored. The words did not matter, could not be heard. The voice mattered, for it took possession of all it touched, penetrated and amalgamated intoitself all that it reached. 

Marianne saw the voice, saw the shudder of it go forththrough the structure, a tremorous wave as in a sheet shakenby the wind, the returning vibration trembling through the coiledrailings. She felt the shudder in the same instant she felt Mr. Grassi's card begin to burn upon her shoulder with a pervasiveheat which covered her and radiated from her. Her hand layupon the railing; she felt the lash as the brazen circlets uncoiled to reveal flat, triangular serpents' heads, mouths gaping withfangs extended, striking from among the knots of bronze acanthus to shed venom like rain upon the stacks below. One serpentstruck a hands width from her hand, and on the lobby floor beneath she could see the serpents gliding in their tangled thousands. 

The warmth which came from the card at her shoulder surrounded her, close as the blanket she had found, so that she looked out upon madness from the security of her own impenetrable shell, as marvelous as it was unexpected. In all that lofty, ramified building there was only this one flaw in the fabric of the place, this one error in calculation of resonances,this one gap in the fatal architecture of the building to allow asmall sphere of warm protection where the voice did not reach. She saw the serpents strike and strike again while the womanwalked with the head librarian through the doors of the BoardRoom, saw them coil again into those baroque tangles fromwhich they had emerged, and knew that she had been reprieved,saved, by some intent she had known nothing of. Had that voice fallen on unprotected ears she would have been bitten,poisoned, dead.

When the members of the board had shut the great doorsbehind them, Marianne stayed where she was, not daring tomove so much as an inch to the right or left, as sure of hersafety in that one place as she had ever been sure of anythingand as sure of her jeopardy if she moved as she was sure she 

had heard nemesis in the voice of Madame Delubovoska. 

The meeting was not long, barely long enough to offer anexcuse for the assembly to have met at all. When they hadgone, truly gone, she came down from her perch at last, slowly,sniffing the air as for fire or some odorous beast. All was as usual to the eyes, to the nose, to the ears, but she knew thatsomething had sought to smoke her out, and she knew thatevery previous threat had been multiplied a hundredfold; everyprevious shadow folded upon itself to a deeper opacity; everymystery stirred into menace and jelled. Only the remainingtingle of Mr. Grassi's card against her skin, only the sound ofwhisperers at the windows demanding books, books she hadpromised, brought her to full determination again.

From that time on, whenever books were mentioned, Marianne would say, "You said the New Storage Area, didn't you,Librarian?" Whenever she was within hearing range of any'figure, she would say, "Those books should be taken to theNew Storage Area." So it went, day by day by day. She hadbecome so accustomed to failure that success almost eluded her. Almost she missed the assistant librarian's gesture towardthe pile of books on her desk. Almost she missed the figure'squiet voice saying in the usual indirect manner, "These booksbelong in the New Storage Area."

Marianne gathered them up. There were six or seven, nota heavy load. She had kept the two books Mr. Grassi had askedfor on her desk for days, for it was her intention to take theseas well. If they were useful inside the library, they would bedoubly useful outside, or so she reasoned. She added them to the pile and started for the door, sure someone would stop her.The doorman ignored her. She leaned against the glassy slab,feeling it move reluctantly before her slight weight, steppedthrough onto the portico. She trembled as she went down the steps and around the comer to the garden, to the sign. The shrubbery was full of shadows and eyes. Those who had danced,cheered, whispered through high windows were there, just outof sight, watching her through the foliage with greedy intensity.She dropped all the books but her two and fled back to thesidewalk, hearing them scrambling behind her. One of them came after her, not threatening, merely following; she couldhear the scrape of shoes. 

Against her skin was the card Mr. Grassi had given her.Behind her in the library was only an enormous quiet. Behindher on the sidewalk the muffled steps came on, hesitant butdetermined, giving notice they would go wherever she chose to go. 




SHE HAD BEEN so intent upon leaving the library that she had spent little time planning what to do once she had escaped.She would, of course, find her way to Number Eight ManticoreStreet. She assumed that she would be able to ask directions, that conditions outside the library would be somehow differentfrom conditions inside it. However, there was no one to ask. The footsteps behind her, persistent though they were, did notindicate a visible person to whom a question could be directed.She found herself walking through a neighborhood of narrow-fronted houses which stared nearsightedly at her over highstoops and scraps of entryway relieved only by tattered yewsand spectral cypresses. An iron-fenced square centered thisarea, a stretch of weedy grass around a dilapidated bandstandwhere shreds of paint flickered like pennants in the light wind.She went on walking. The houses gave way to massive, windowless warehouses, every wall plastered with colored posters,layer on layer, variously tattered, all showing human figures,the irregular tearing and layering offering odd, sometimes obscene juxtapositions of hands, breasts, groins, and mouths.Occasionally a figure was untorn, almost whole, and all of 

these seemed to be fleeing from her as though she saw themfrom the back, though faces were sometimes turned over shoulders in expressions of terror. Soon the warehouses gave wayto smaller buildings, dirt-fronted and surrounded by bits ofrusty machinery, and then came open country stretching in afeatureless plain to a distant wall which ran endlessly upon the horizon. 

In all this way there had been no person, no living thing,no sound except for the hesitant steps far behind her. Sighing,she turned to her left for a few blocks before returning on acourse parallel to her original one. She began to see shops onthe side streets, some of them overhanging the street in thearchaic manner of fairy tale illustrations. The buildings herewere plastered with the same type of paper posters she hadseen on the warehouses. A little farther on the shops invadedthe street she walked upon; a news kiosk, papers arrayed onthe counter, caught her eye. The headline displayed on thepaper said LIBRARY BOARD DISCUSSES THEFT, VANDALISM. The story beneath told of a minor clerical employeewho had taken and wantonly destroyed some books. Desecration, said the paper. Citizens were alerted to apprehend, observe, notify. 

Her panic could have been observable a block away, sheknew. How had there been time to print anything about herescape? It had only just happened. They must have known herplans before she herself was aware of their fruition. Or—it was someone else, not herself that they sought. And how couldthey seek her? They had never seen her. The story named theperson: Mildred Cobb.

Nonsense, thought Marianne. I am not Mildred Cobb. I am Marianne... Marianne... someone. Fear spoke within, self speaking to self. "How do you know? Could you prove this?Would they believe you? You are carrying stolen books. Youare wearing the library uniform."

There was no one around her, no one to see her, and yetshe felt eyes running upon her skin like insect feet. A bookstorestood behind the kiosk, its interior a well of dusky emptiness.When she entered it the bell gave a strangled jingle rapidlydrowned in the oing, oing, oing of the spring on which it hung,a tinny whine. She crept to the rear of the store, pulled ancient 

books from shelves undisturbed for years, sneezing in themiasmic cloud which rose as she thrust the books and her collar into hiding. There. She could find them again, but no one elsewould. She started to leave, freezing hi place as heavy footstepscrossed the floor above her and a deep voice called.

"Somebody? You want something?"She gasped, managed to choke out, "A map of the city? You have a city map?"

"Behind the counter. You want it, leave the money." Thefootsteps crossed over her once more; the creak of springscapitalized the silence which followed, a statement of condition. 

There was no Manticore Street on the map. When she returned to the street, she went on as she had been, noting the signpost at the corner so that she could find the place again,chanting it to herself as she went, "Billings and Twelfth. Billings and Twelfth." She had gone a dozen blocks more beforeshe saw the first person. Then there were several, a womanwith a dog, two men talking, then tens of them.

There was a grocery store, cartons of fruit and vegetableson the sidewalk, jicama and artichokes, thrilps and fresh fennel.Here a pharmacy, an alchemist's, a coffee shop with a sign inthe window, "Dishwasher wanted." Here a church from which solemn music oozed like rendered fat. Here an augurer's post,a dealer in leather goods, a feticheur. She moved among theseplaces as though dreaming, surrounded by life and smells andsound, acutely aware of weariness and hunger. When this busycenter ended hi vacant streets once more, she turned to walk through it again, stopping at the coffee shop. She had no money.She needed food. 

"Dishwasher?" she asked the stout woman with her sleeves rolled to her shoulders. "The job as dishwasher?""Last dishwasher I had the Inquisitors took two days ago.The one before that drank. You drink?" 

Marianne shook her head, confused. "Not—not what you mean, no. I'd drink something now, though. I haven't had anything all day."

"Ah. On Manticore Street, are you? Well, I've been theremore than once. You got a place to stay? No. Well, bunk onthe cot in the storeroom until you find a place. Get yourself 

some food in the kitchen, then you can start in on those pans."

The bowl of soup was half gone before the woman's wordsmade sense to Marianne. "Manticore Street, are you?" Well, then, it was a known place. She thought of it as she ate, asshe scrubbed pots, smelling the fatty soap smell of the sink,the good meat smell of the kitchen. When darkness came, the woman, Helen, shut the door and got ready to leave. Marianneasked, "Why do you say, 'on Manticore Street'? Is it a real street?" 

"When you haven't got any money, that's being on Manticore Street," Helen said. "Because that's where the poorhouseand the debtor's prison are, on Twelfth Street, where the Manticore is. You're a stranger here, aren't you? No, don't tell meanything. I don't want to know. Just remember, don't ask questions of strangers, and don't stay on the streets any time onshut-down day. Do that, and you might last. God knows there'senough time to last in." She left the place with a bitter littlelaugh which sounded spare and edgy from so large a woman.

"On Twelfth Street, where the Manticore is," said Marianne to herself. She would find it soon, perhaps tomorrow. Her handswere sore from the hot water, her feet and back ached from bending over the sink. Still, she felt closer to freedom than shehad ever felt in the library. There was even a blanket on the cot to hug her with the same scratchy protection the blue onehad provided.

It was several days before she could look for ManticoreStreet. She did not want to go out in the library uniform, andit took a little time to earn the coins necessary to buy a brightscarf from the pushcart man, an old, warm cape from the usedclothes woman, a pair of stockings to replace the ragged onesshe had worn in the library. She watched the women in the place as they walked past. They were dressed as though inmotley, bits and pieces of this and that, some carelessly, others with a touch of defiant flair. Still, it was apparent that any oldthing would do well enough.

She returned from her foray for stockings to find Helen reading the paper. Everyone in the city read the paper—copies of it littered the gutters and blew along the building fronts.

"Tomorrow's shut-down day," said Helen, folding the paperinto a club with which she beat the countertop in a steady thud, thud, thud. "Shut-down day. I won't be in."

"Shut-down day?"

"Don't be on the street after noon, girl. I mean it. There'splenty to eat back there in the kitchen, plenty of cleaning todo to keep you busy. Stay in. That's all. No—don't ask me. I told you. Don't ask questions."

"You said not to ask strangers."

"We're all strangers, girl. Just do what I tell you."

That evening there was a tap on the window, and she lookedout half fearfully to see a black, hunched form against the glassand knew it for that persistent follower who had come afterher from the library. The watcher tapped on the window, refusedto give up when she attempted to ignore him, but went on with the slow tap, tap, tap, not threatening, merely continuous untilshe could bear the sound no longer. Almost fearfully she wentto the window to see a message thrust against the glass. "Notall who are here are Manticore meat! Will you join us?" Shedid not know what this meant and did not want to encouragethe watcher, but neither did it seem wise to anger him. She wrote upon a napkin the word "perhaps" and held it to the pane. This seemed to satisfy him, for he scribbled, "I'll comeback another time," showed it to her briefly, then disappearedinto the wind-scattered shadows of the street. Though Mariannesat in the dark, watching the window for some time, he did not return. ____ 

Marianne told herself she would retrieve her books and look for Number Eight Manticore Street very early in the morning,only for an hour or two, returning to the shop well before noon.She left just at first light, wearing her cape, scarf tied over herhead. The markets were closed. There were only a few peopleon the streets. Those who moved about did so furtively, scurrying short distances from this place to that like mice in astrange place. The odd looks directed at her made Mariannewalk close to the buildings, staring behind her at odd moments,hurrying her steps. She went south on Billings, counting theblocks: First, Second, Third.... By the time she had come toSeventh the walks were completely empty. Tattered postersglared at her from the walls, full of reaching arms and frightened eyes. A hand showed briefly at a window, flicking a curtain into place. 

When she crossed Twelfth, she was almost running. The blinds were drawn in the bookstore, but the door was not locked. She eased it open, tiptoed to the back of the store tofumble out the books she had hidden there, then hurried back to the street, the door swinging closed behind her with itsinsistent oing, oing, oing. She turned back to Twelfth, turnedright at the comer, searching for the numbers. Eleven. Thirteen.Odd numbers. The light around her was beginning to dim, topulse, to waver before her eyes. She ran across the street. Number Six. Number Ten. No Number Eight. Panicky, shehuddled in a doorway, seeing the street crawl before her asthough seen through moving air or flawed glass. It couldn't benoon yet. Helen had said stay off the streets after noon.

No, she cried to herself. Helen had said stay in! Her feelingof panic was growing. Number Six. Number Ten. East. East!She scurried from the doorway, turned right, pattering downthe sidewalk with the heavy books clutched to her chest, gasping as though she had run miles, across Billings Street wherethe numbers began again, only to stop, transfixed.

The corner shop was Number Four, a taxidermy shop, solabeled in golden script which slanted across the window in which the Manticore poised, rampant, claws extended and teethbared in glass-eyed fury, huge and horrible. The beard of the Manticore seemed to rustle with evil life; the eyes seemed tosee her. The eyes were dark and familiar, glaring at her, staringinto her, transfixing her until she trembled against the glass,hypnotized as a bird is said to be by a snake, poised betweensurrender and fear. 

Fear won, barely. She broke away from the window, ran past a vacant store to a narrow door numbered eight at the footof equally narrow stairs. Behind her, as she fled up this flight,came a crash of breaking glass, a hideous scream of rage, apalpable wave of fury which thrust her before it up the lastfew steps and through the opened door where Mr. Grassi caughther, pushed her aside and leaned his whole weight against thedoor. It gave slowly, slowly to close against the sounds below. 

"My dear," he said, panting, "you cut it close, very close.Another moment would have been too late." 

She staggered after him as he went to the window wherehe pulled the curtains together to peek through them at the street below. It was hard to see the street. It boiled with shadows, ran with flickering. Thicknesses of air transgressed uponsight. Things shifted, were there, were not there. Clouds of tiny beings came and went, a slightly darker surge in the generalflow. Striding through it all, pace on pace of its lion feet, tailarched high above its giant man-head, came the Manticore,scorpion tail lashing as the beast followed its own manic howlalong the dream-wrapped street.

"There will be others," whispered Cani Grassi. 'Troops ofmandrakes, legions of Greasy Girls. The Manticore will leadthem, and woe to those abroad upon the streets."

"She said noon!" complained Marianne. "Noon! It was hoursyet to noon."

"One of the conditions of this city is that time changes,speeds, slows, does what they want it to do. In this case, theyspeeded it. A trap for the unwary."

"They? They who? Why do they care? Why do they careabout me? Who am I that they should care?"

"Oh, Lords of Light," he fretted. "I hoped you knew. Truly?Oh, that makes it so much more difficult. I know you aresomeone very important, but I have forgotten just who. Just now it seems you are something less than that." He took herchapped hands tenderly in his own. "Cleaning lady, is it?"

"Dishwasher," she replied absently. "What am I doing here?""Ah. Why, you are suffering a malign enchantment. That much I am sure of. I thought you might have guessed."

She collapsed into one of the chairs beside the window,staring out blindly at the raging street below. "I hadn't guessedanything. Except that it was odd I couldn't remember anythingbefore the library."

"Many people here are like that," he said. "They have forgotten, or been forced to forget. Even I, even I have forgottensome things I am sure are very important. Some people canremember nothing. Particularly those in the library."

"So many? And all enchanted?"

"An accumulation, I believe. Some have been here for a very long time. Not only those enchanted by her!" "Why? Who is she?"Cani Grassi shook his head, tilted it, thrust his tongue out

at the comer of his mouth. "I kept only a little information 

when I came after you, only the tiniest bit, to be sneaked through, so as not to attract attention, you understand. Too much would have alerted them, her. But a little bit, well, Macravail thought it would be safe enough. When he sent me,that is. To rescue you, whoever you are."

She scarcely heard this, for her eyes had been caught by afleeing figure in the street below. "Helen," she cried. "It's Helen. I must go let her in...." And she ran toward the door,only to be caught in Grassi's arms and held fast, struggling.

"Not anyone real," he shook her. "Not real. Don't be so quick, Marianne. Look out the window. Look!"

The woman fled toward them; behind her the Manticore pursued with a roaring howl of madness, tail flicking steamingdrops of venom onto the pavement where she ran, her hairstreaming behind her and her face distorted in fear. As she ranpast, she dwindled, became two-dimensional as though madeof paper, a fluttering tissue which then appeared whole oncemore as it ran away from them down the endless street.

Then the papery figure turned its head, stared over its ownshoulder, neck folding oddly, pleating upon itself. The figureswerved close to the wall across the street, opened its mouth to scream once more and collided with the wall to hang there,a pasted-up poster figure, mouth forever open, arms foreveroutstretched, dress forever twisted and hiked up by the act ofrunning. Marianne heard her own voice crying and found herself held tight against Grassi's shoulder as he patted her back,murmuring, "My dear, my dear. Shh. Shhh. They aren't real.Not in the way you suppose they are. Shh, now. Shh." 

"It was Helen. Truly Helen."

"I know. I know," he said. "But you must not give way likethis. You must watch and learn and understand. Otherwise, how are we to rescue you from anything? How are we to sendword to Macravail? Come now." 

"How are we to rescue me? Gods, Mr. Grassi, how would I know? And you don't seem to know any more than I! Whatis this hopeless place we have come to? Why are we here?"

"My dear pretty lady, do think, do. This is no minor enchantment, no trifling play of an apprentice witch. This is anensorcelment majeur, a chief work! Oh, these false worlds cluster about limbo thick as grapes upon a vine, great pendulous masses of them upon the dry stick of the place we came from.Oh, I grow eloquent! Each world a grape, each grape with ajuice and flavor of its own, individual, unique. Each world with its own laws, its own systems. Each a prison with its owngate. Each a door with its own lock. So, so, what do we do until we know where the gate is? Where the lock is? Ha? Wesneak, we sly, we peer, we pry—think child, do! We appear as nothing, negligible, not worth the notice of the powers ofthis place. So, who comes to help you? Ha? The tiniest spy,the weakest servant, the least noticeable familiar. Me. Cani Grassi." He turned himself about for her inspection, making a pouting face and wiggling his hips. "I brought no baggage,carried no sacks full of spells of protection, no witch bags, not an amulet even! No, no, in this place we are stronger the weakerthey think we are." 

Mouth open, she stared at him, disbelieving these tumbledwords, this babbling nonsense. "Who sent you?" she asked, thinking it was a question she should have asked hours ago.

"Macravail," he replied unhesitatingly. "The arch mage, Macravail." 

"And who," she asked, "or what, is he?" 

"A kinsman of yours, I think, pretty one. You do not remember him, but then, you do not remember much. One ofthe laws of this place."

"Then how do you remember him?"

"Because I am not suffering a malign enchantment and you are. So. Let us think together. You do not know who you are,and neither do I. If Macravail did not send that information with me, we must believe it is for your protection, or mine,or perhaps both. However, I do remember Macravail, and hiswords to me. 'Greendog,' he said, 'send me word where I may find you.'"

"Greendog? What kind of a name is that?" 

"My name," he said doubtfully, "or perhaps what he calledme at the time. Who knows?" More cheerfully, "Perhaps he made a joke. Whatever. We must figure out a way to send him

word." He fell silent for a long time, so long it became uncomfortable and Marianne fidgeted, saying, "What else?"He shook his head. "I was thinking there is very little else." 

"Didn't this Macravail give you instructions?""To find you, Marianne. 'Find Marianne,' he said. The rest he left to my native cunning and natural self-effacement." 

She sighed. It was evident there was no quick, sweet-hotsolution. There was only tedium and talk, fear and what courage one could bring to it. So. If that was the way it was, then thatwas the way it must be. 

"Well, if you have nothing to tell me, I do have somethingto tell you," she said and she told him about the peerers-in,the stolen books, the burned book, the visit to the library ofthe woman in black. "I don't know what it all means," she confessed, "what it meant when I put the book out the coalchute. Do you have any idea?" 

He nodded, nodded, chewing his pursed lips in concentration. "Oh, yes, pretty lady. For everyone in this city there is a book. There is a book in that place for you, and for me, andfor Helen, your boss, and for everyone. We are bound to our books. And when you put the book outside and it was burned,then someone escaped from this city. That is why they cheered.But there was only one book, only one. That is why they despaired. But listen, there is more. 

"Here in the city, the Manticore. There in the library, books. And as the Manticore chases our images onto the walls of thecity, I think the books grow dim and faded and we grow dim and thin and shadowy as well, until they cannot be read anylonger. What does one do with them then?"

"With the old, faded books? They are taken to the subbasements and stacked there. Room after room of them. Huge,mountainous piles of them."

He nodded somberly. "And no chance then of escape. Onlyto fall into slow rot, to disappear into dust over an eternity ofstorage." Sadly shaking his head, sighing. "We will not consider that. No. Before that time is near, we will have found a way to send for Macravail, or he will have found a way to us.That is why we have our books, of course, yours and mine."

"We have them?" "Surely. You brought them. They are here. Was not your own story in the book?""But there were thousands of others, too, more stories than I could count...." 

"Well. Yes. Most of our books have others' stories in them, though we are often unaware of that. It is no matter, pretty lady. You have your book and you must read in it again, to find what we must do next." 

"My story again?""Is it not your story we seek to unravel? Your story, ofcourse." 

So she sat down away from the window in order not to bedistracted by the recurrent return of the Manticore, by thecontinuing flight of the paper figures, the miragelike waveringof the street, to read her own story, beginning with "... Shefound herself walking through a neighborhood where narrow-fronted houses stared nearsightedly at her over high stoops andscraps of entryway relieved only by tattered yews..." and ending with "Is it not your story we seek to unravel? Your story, of course." It was all as familiar to her as ten minutes ago. Even the picture was of her in her bright scarf, cape around her shoulders, clutching the books to her chest as she fled pastthe corner taxidermy shop where the Manticore raged in thewindow. "I shall read it again," she said in a tired voice, "andagain, and again." 

She did not relish reading the story a dozen times, as shehad had to do before, but she began without a murmur whileGrass! brought her bread and cheese and tea. It did not take as long this time as she had expected.

"Here," she said to him. "I think this may be it: "That evening there was a tap on the window, and she looked outhalf fearfully to see a black, hunched form against the glassand knew it for that persistent follower who had come after her from the library. The watcher tapped on the window....Almost fearfully she went to the window to see a message thrust against the glass. Not all who are here are Manticore meat! Will you join us? She wrote upon a napkin the word perhaps and held it to the pane. This seemed to satisfy him, for he scribbled, I'll come back another time....'" 

"What do you think?" he asked. "A kind of underground, perhaps?" 

"Something like that."

"Against what? Who?"

She shrugged. "Against whoever runs things, manages the 

library, keeps the books. If someone escaped—that's the wordyou used—then it means people are being kept here, imprisoned here. And someone is opposed to it, some resistancemovement." 

"How effective, I wonder?" 

"Who knows? It is at least something. I'll put a note in thewindow of the restaurant when I get back. Helen won't mind as long as it isn't conspicuous."

"And I," he said, doing a little dance step on the carpet,twirling and bowing to himself, "I must continue the minuet, the slow dance of finding out. Bow, advance, bow, retreat. Slow and easy, so they don't catch me."

"Whoever they are." She laughed, a weary laugh echoedfrom the street where the Manticore raged past as evening fell."Find out who that woman is who came to the library, Mr.Grassi. If we find out who she is, it may tell me who I am."

He shook his head at her, tongue protruding between histeeth. "I won't spend time doing that, pretty lady. No. I will do what Macravail told me to do—send him a message. He will come like the wind, like a storm, if only we can figureout how to tell him where we are...." 

"I hope you will be able to do that soon," she comforted him, privately thinking that it sounded no less mad than anything else in the place. "But just in case no one can save usfrom outside, we must try to figure out how to save ourselves." When he reached to pat her shoulder, she patted his in return."It's all right. I'll be careful." 

They watched together until the Manticore returned to itswindow and people appeared on the streets once more, few and furtive, but moving about nonetheless. Then she left him to return to her work, wondering as the wind blew sharp bitsof cinder into her eyes whether it was truly enchantment ordream or a horrible reality from which there would never be any escape. 

Makr Avehl had been on the phone for half an hour, speakingfirst to someone calling via satellite, an enigmatic conversation which involved much note-taking and short, monosyllabic questions. The later calls were to the people he had sent toBoston, and when he had finished them all he merely sat where he was, staring at the carpet between his feet. After twenty minutes of this, Ellat cleared her throat to attract his attention. They had spent two days in this sitting about. He had not left Marianne's apartment even for a moment.

"What word?" she asked. 

"Harvey Zahmani is not in Boston. No one knows where he is. He did not announce his departure, which he usuallydoes if he is going on some expedition. Besides, he's supposedto be teaching, and he hasn't shown up since last week." 

"So you think—"

"I think he went after her, after Marianne. Or, probably,she drew him into the world to which she has gone. Actually,that's much more likely. He would be no more able than I to find her, so she must have drawn him in." 

"Why? Fearful of him as she was?"

"Because when we are in our own dream worlds, we peoplethem with others who are important to us, whether we love orhate them. Her world would have Harvey in it, because he tiedhimself to her in some way so that she could not or would not simply dismiss him."

"But you are not tied to her? Not with her?"

"Oh, Ellat. I know it. I wasn't important enough to her,though I much longed to be."

"She liked you."

"She liked most people. She liked Mrs. Winesap, downstairs, and Mr. Larkin, and the people in the library. But theyweren't important to her. No. Likely they are not in her worldeither. But I have to find a way to get there, wherever she is."

"If you go into her world, Makr Avehl, won't it have to bein the form which she assigns you? As she sees you or thinksof you? Are you prepared for that?" 

The face he turned to her was blank with surprise. He had obviously not thought of it, or had thought of it and refused to consider it further. He started to shake his head impatiently,but she stopped him with a gesture. "No. Makr Avehl. Think.I twitted you down at Wanderly, twitted you with lecturing at the girl rather than talking with her. If you had talked with her,you would not have risked her life as it has been risked. I toldher that such pontificating was your way, and she said she didn't mind, that she found you interesting. So she is goodnatured. We both know that. But you know nothing about her. Suppose—oh, take an impossible example—suppose she seesyou as some monster? If you follow her into her world, it willbe as that monster. I know that's not possible, but...." Her voice trailed away at seeing the expression on his face. 

Makr Avehl was remembering Marianne's hand recoilingfrom his own, her face knitted up in that expression of unwilling revulsion. Ellat, seeing him stricken, took his limp hands inher own. "Tell me. Did I hit upon an unwelcome truth? MakrAvehl, tell me! You need my help."

"You hit upon something, Sister. Something. I—I offered to stay with her Sunday night. I was afraid of her being alone.I meant nothing at all improper, nothing lubricious. I thought, after all, that she is an American girl, in her twenties, not someadolescent daughter of Third World aristocrats who has had virginity developed into an art form. I offered to stay with her,meaning nothing dishonorable, and she recoiled from me as though I had been a serpent. She said something—what wasit? Something about not being like that, and then she mutteredunder her breath 'begone, burned, buried'—an invocation or curse. I was so surprised I could say nothing. I apologized. I left her. Zurvan knows how she sees me. If you had not reminded me of that instance, I would have thought she regardedme well enough."

"It might not have been you at all," said Ellat comfortingly."It might have been a conditioned thing, her usual response to any thought of intimacy. In which case, since we have met herbrother, perhaps we can guess? I can guess. You are perhaps too nice-minded." 

"Her half brother? Do you mean that she—"

"I mean that he probably tried something with her when she was quite young, and by 'quite young' I mean emotionally, not necessarily in years. She is still 'quite young' in many ways. It would explain much. It would explain her attitude towardyour offer to stay with her. You do look like him." 

"What do you mean, 'tried something'? Do you mean totell me that he tried to force her? Or did force her?" 

"Possibly. It would explain many things about her. And, since he is the kind of man he is, he probably followed thefailure or success of his attempt with an equally forceful attempt to make her feel responsible for it. She is carrying some burdenregarding him, Makr Avehl, and I wish that Zurvan had promptedyou to pay attention to her instead of to the impression youwere making."

"You're brutal, Ellat." 

"Only occasionally," she said with a fond embrace of his shoulders. "Only when I am distressed beyond measure. Now,what did the Kavi say?"

"I asked them to read the Cave for me, as you know. I askedfor three readings. Cyram did one, Nalavi did one, and thethird was by that young cousin of Cyram's, the one with thescary eyes..."

"Therat. She doesn't have scary eyes. She's a bit intense."

"She has eyes like a hawk protecting its nest, ready to tearout your gizzard. Oh, God, Ellat, what difference what kind of eyes she has? They took the readings. I asked for guidance to Marianne. That's all. Aghrehond will be helping all he can,concentrating, fishing about and stirring up the waters. Well...."

"So. The message?"

"Books and what Cyram describes as 'a paper person.' Nalavi saw a building, and a city. The young one—" 

"Therat." 

"Therat saw a manticore. Nothing else; just a manticore."

"I didn't know there was a manticore in the Cave." 

"Neither did anyone else. It's there. Carved in the seventh or eighth century, Cyram thinks, near the floor, half hiddenbehind a stalagmite. The light fell on it clean and clear, Theratsaid, but he didn't believe her until he took a lantern in there and looked for it. It wasn't even in the lectionary."

"Without the lectionary..." 

"Anybody's guess. No history of lessons. No previous citations. No precedents. Cyram says that the girl—""Therat," she said patiently."Therat. Cyram says that she feels it means just what it is.

A manticore. Oh, one more thing. Cyram also saw an onion." He laughed without amusement. "Of course, I have a lectionarywith me and I'll start by looking up the references that are in it." 

"Makr," she said, eyes half shut as she stared at the streetlight glow through the hazy curtains. "Makr. It makes me think 

of something. Paper people, and onions. A thing she said.What was it? Shhh, now, let me think." And she leaned her head in her hands rocking to and fro while the wind movedthe branches on the curtain, changing their shadow pattern witheach flicker. "Something she said about peeling away... beingpeeled away... about Harvey doing that to her—peeling heraway..."

"Like a snake shedding its skin?" he whispered. "Papery skin, peeling away? Like that?"

"Think," she said in a vague voice. "Of onions, one layerinside another, inside another, all the way to the heart of it andnothingness. She said Harvey made her feel that way. Flayed.Skinned. Perhaps an onion is not a bad symbol for that."

"Books?" he asked. "Books. A building. A city."

"Books and a building. She worked in a library, Makr Avehl,you told me that yourself. Think! You don't know her well enough, that's all. You should have listened to her. You shouldhave stopped talking and listened to her."

He knelt on the floor before her and bowed his head into her lap. "Beat me, Ellat. Beat me as you did when I was five and tried to drown the white cat. Beat me, but then forgive meand help me. I'm a beast, but forgive me."

She shook her head. "A library, Makr Avehl. People beingpeeled like onions. A manticore. A manticore is a monster. That's all. Look in the lectionary, if you like, but it will not tell you more than that. To learn more than that, you must lookat this place and listen to it as you did not listen to her." 

He began to walk around the room, laying his hands onthe walls, on the windowsills, on the satiny surfaces of therefinished furniture, on the shelves, the countertops, the carefully laid tile. He began to breathe in the scent of the place, to inhale it, the mixture of lemon oil and potpourri and thefragile smell of Marianne herself, faintly spicy, faintly musky.He began to see the colors, each on each and together, untilhe knew her thought and intention as she had put each thingin its place, each brushstroke on each surface. He felt the textureof the fabric on the chairs, the dry whiskery push of it into his palm, like a cat's face. He turned on the lamp, noticed the waythe light lay on the wood, on the paint, on the fabric. "She layon the bed in there," he whispered. "She saw it just like this, this corner." He went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, turned until he saw it as he knew she had seen it, the blanket warm and soft beneath his cheek. Under the lamplight the happyfrog he had brought her glowed quietly.

What kind of world would one like this carry in her soul? What would its geography be, its climate and culture? He layquietly, letting what he knew of her possess him until it becamemore real than himself. Where? Where? Where? 

Ellat came to the door of the room. "Makr Avehl. Remember, in her world you may not have a form or presence whichwill please you. Remember, it may not be of her own doing. It may be merely something old and wounding which will not let her see you as you are." 

"I know, Ellat," he said. "If anyone can be prepared, I amprepared. Wait here for me.""Oh, my dear," she said. "Of course I will wait for you." 




"WHO AM I when I don't know who I am?" She was leaningacross a table, trying to post her inconspicuous notice in thecorner of the coffee shop window, speaking partly to herself.Helen was behind the counter, wiping it with a moist cloth andhumming around the toothpick between her teeth. She interrupted the hum to make a short, interrogative snort and put herhands on her hips. Marianne got the notice propped to hersatisfaction. It said, "I wish to meet with those who said theywould return."" 

Helen thought this over. "Who are you? You're whoever you were, except you don't remember it."

"Then I can't be who I was. Memories are part of who aperson is, and I don't have any. Right now, I remember thelibrary and getting out of it. That's almost all I am. There's noone here to tell me whether I was good, or bad, or really evil.I don't know whether I helped people or hurt them."

"You're pretty young to have done very much of either."

"I'm old enough to have started. I don't know whether people loved me or hated me. Or—not really. Except that someone hated me enough to get rid of me."

Privately, Marianne felt that the answer to this question wasnot as important as some superficial and conventional attitudesmade it seem. In this sunless place, with its walled horizonand enclosed universe, there was still regard among the inhabitants for a kind of wary politeness, a conventional courtesy.There was an accepted discrimination between good and evil,based largely upon the Manticore as a defining limit of the oneand opposition to him as the expression of the other. In this place, Marianne was good because she opposed evil. What shemight have been elsewhere, what sins she might have committed, could only be pale and irrelevant in this world, and itwas only a traditional concern which made her voice the question—and of what tradition she would have been hard pressed to say.

"Someone else cares enough about you to try and come afteryou. You told me about the fellow, the one with the books."

"And that tells me that I wasn't completely... you know,neutral. I didn't think I was neutral, anyhow. I don't look likea neutral person, do I, Helen?"

Helen shook her head, almost smiling. Since Marianne had told her about Cani Grassi and her narrow escape from theManticore, Helen seemed a little more trusting, more personal,less shut up within herself. "You don't look neutral, girl. Youlook exactly like some of the people in the place I come from.You could be a cousin to them." 

"Where was that?" 

"I lived in Alphenlicht. Ever heard of it?" 

Marianne felt a tingle, a tiny shock running from ear to earacross the top of her head, a kind of sparkling behind the eyes,which came for an instant and was gone. 

"It's a tiny, old country," Helen went on. "Squeezed in atthe comer of some bigger, more important countries, mountainsall around. A little backward, I guess you'd say. We had a schoolteacher used to say that. 'A little backward in a nice way,' she'd say. Lots of horses on the farms and little wagonsin the streets. Only a few cars, and those only to take the high-ups away when they needed to fly somewhere or buy somethingwe didn't have. A slow little country, slow and peaceful. Never was any war in Alphenlicht as long as anyone could remember. 

Some said we were too little. Others said it was because of the Cave of Light."

"The Cave of Light?" A tingle, wanning, warning.

"In the Holy Mountain, right in the middle of the country.See, there was this mountain, like a big sponge, all full ofholes and tunnels, little ones and big ones, and all the holeslined with this shiny glass-rock, what do you call it? Eisen—what?" 

"Isinglass? You mean mica?"

"That stuff. Yes. Well, all these holes go down into themountain into a cave there. A big cave. Round like a melon. Flat floor. Pillars of stone and all these little holes reflectinglight down into it. Well, back when the Kavi first came .to Alphenlicht, they began to make carvings and drawings in thecave. After a few hundred years, the whole cave was coveredwith carvings, all over the inside."

"What kind of carvings? People? Gods? What?"

"Everything. Trees, animals, flowers, people, books, words—everything you can imagine and a few you can't. So,people had noticed that the light comes down through the mountain, down all those funny shiny tubes and holes, and falls onsome of the carvings. Not much to that, hmm? Well, somebodyhad noticed that the light never seemed to fall the same way twice. Say you go in there today at sunrise, and the light fallsone place on the carving of a tree and another place on an oldman eating a rabbit. Then somebody else comes in midmorning,and the light falls on a picture of a boat and the word sthrandunas. And at noon something else, and midafternoon something else, and tomorrow morning something else again."

"But it would have to be the same sometimes. Say, every 14th of June at six a.m." 

"It isn't," said Helen triumphantly. "They kept records, andit isn't. Never the same way twice. They finally figured out itwas because of the way the trees grow on the mountain, or thedeer graze, or the hunters move, or whatever. No two peopleever see the light the same. No one person ever sees it thesame twice. Just like fingerprints, all different...."

"Well, then it didn't take long for people to decide it waslike a kind of oracle. You have a problem, you go into theCave and see where the light falls, and that makes a message for you. If you can't figure it out, then there are Kavi therewho figure it out for you. They even have a book telling whatall the signs and carvings mean."

"Like an oracle," mused Marianne, "the oracle of Delphi,"not realizing she had no idea what "Delphi" meant.

"Some call it that," said Helen. "Some call it the oracle cave. There are those who say that's why we never had a war,because the Cave showed us how to keep our borders closed.There must have been something to that, coo, come to thinkof it." She fell silent, thinking.

"Why was that, Helen?"

"Oh, it was something my husband, David, said once aboutpeople from the neighboring country trying to get in. He was a border guard, my David, when he was younger."

"Tell me about him, about you. How did you get here?"

The large woman stared out the window, ticking the toothpick between her teeth, a little tapping, like woodbeetle or some kind of infinitesimal code transmission. For a time Marianne thought she would not answer, but at last she said, "Well,why not?

"We lived near the Prime Minister's house, not his town house, you know, for when the Council met, but his countryhouse, the Residence. David kept the grounds at the place, himand two or three young fellows and a couple of women in thekitchen garden. Didn't like the insides of places, David didn't. Liked the sun in his face and getting his hands dirty. Well, wegot along well enough. Never had any children, which was sadfor us, but otherwise it was a good life. Come one spring,David was doing some cutting along the drive, and aroundnoon I took him his lunch. I remember walking down the road.There were birds singing, and the grass was smelling the wayit does, fresh. The house was shining up on its hill, walls allsilver rose in the sun. Well, I saw this big, black car comedown the hill from the Residence, raising up dust, and I knew it was her." 

Silence stretched, Helen's eyes fixed on something distantin time and place, voice fallen into a murmur. Marianne waitedfor a time, then nudged into the quiet. "Who was she, Helen?"

"Ah. Who? Oh, her. Well, she was some nobility or other.From Lubovosk. It was a country over the mountain used to 

be part of us but separated off a long time ago. That's the onlytime we ever talked war in Alphenlicht, when Lubovosk wasmentioned. Our teacher called it a place of some unkindness,I remember. This woman was there, come to try and marryherself off to our Prime Minister. We called her the Black Countess because she always wore black, and she had thisnephew came with her. We called him Prince Teeth becausehe was always behind her with his teeth showing like a dogabout to bite, pretty much of an age with her, too....

"Well, this car comes down the hill and into the woods. I heard it coming, the roar of it along the road like some animalgrowling among the trees. Then it stopped. I came round a corner and saw David had a little tree down across the road where he'd cut it. He was bowing and tugging his hat brimand saying he'd have it out of the way in a moment, real polite.He was always polite, David...."

"Yes," whispered Marianne. "What happened?"

"Well, she came out from that car, Prince Teeth right behindher, eyes glittering like a wolf in torchlight, and she pointed afinger at David, one hand pointing and the other hand up inthe air twisting and twisting like somebody opening a greatspigot of something, and she cries, 'Who delays me, I delay.Who holds me, I hold forever. Fool, begone!' Suddenly, David's gone, there's nothing there, and I scream, and she turnson me with that hand still out and the other twisting and twisting, and she smiles—oh, it was a cruel smile—and says, 'Andyou to some other place, slut?' Well, I was quiet. I fell downwith my face in the dirt and I was quiet. I heard the car go onits way, out to the main road and away north. It was her saying'some other place' made me quiet. Wherever David went, that'swhere I would go to find him, not some other place."

"Find him? Where? How?" 

"Come nightfall, I went up to the house and asked to seethe Prime Minister, Archmage Makr Avehl. All the people inthe house were relatives of mine. They let me in to see him."

"Macravail! I know that name. Card Grassi told me that name!" "Ah. Well, then, maybe you're another she's sent here. Likemy David. Not a follower, like me." 

"I don't understand what you mean, follower?"

"I told the Archmage what had happened. Hard-faced he was, sitting there by the fire, and I knew that woman fromLubovosk had made him terribly angry. I told him what had happened, what David did and said, what she did, and the motions she made and the things she said, and he told me hecouldn't get David out without risking the land and all its people, but he could send me in after him, into the false worlds.And if I found David, I could be strong with him until the timeMakr Avehl could get us all out. So I followed David in here."

"How long? How long has it been?" 

"How can you measure how long? Long enough for me totake over this place, long enough to find David, long enoughfor the two of us to know there aren't any trees here, aren't any mountains, to know there's only this city and the Manticore.The damned Manticore." 

"So you did find him?"

"Oh, yes. I found him. For all the good that was." She fell silent for a long time, chewing her lips, wiping the counter inan endless circle. "He didn't know me, you see. Didn't remember me. Wasn't interested. That's one thing about thisplace, you know. There's no love here. No desire. Everything muted and put down of that kind. I've thought about it manya night, lying in my room, knowing he was just down the hallin another room, not caring. Not that I care either, much, but1 can remember caring. He can't even remember that." 

Marianne was instantly uncomfortable with this line of thought. She did not want to think of caring, not in the way Helen meant it, though she knew well enough what Helen meant. Caring was like trees and mountains, something sheknew of, had known of, which did not exist in this world even though she believed that somewhere such things existed. She changed the subject. "What does David do?" 

"He plots, girl. He plots and sneaks about. Ever since I toldhim about her, he follows her whenever she comes here. Oh, she comes here, in that same long, black car. I've seen her going into the library." 

"Madame Delubovoska? Her?" 

Helen put a finger to her lips, shook her head in a tiny tremor, side to side, the gesture saying be still about it, sillygirl, don't say names. "When he isn't following her, he's plotting to kill the Manticore."

"Helen, will you come with me when I go to see my friendnext time? The one who lives on Manticore Street?" Helen shuddered. "I'd as soon not. Better stay as far from the Manticore as possible."

"I was there. It didn't hurt me." 

"You stay here long enough, you'll see yourself out therebeing chased by the Manticore. Pictures of you. Flickery thingsthat look just like you. Like your skin peeled off you, layer on layer, your skin and your soul. I've seen them, big papercut-outs of me, running and screaming and running, and endingup stuck up on the walls of the city, everywhere. After a while,every place you look, there you are, stuck to the walls, bitsand shreds of you peeled away to hold up the walls as thoughthe walls were made of people. I can feel it at night, feel theskin coming off me in the dark, tiny bit by tiny bit, around melike a shroud, then floating off to hang in the shadows untilthe Manticore walks. And we see ourselves running and screaming, and that reminds us to be afraid again."

Marianne did not reply, but she carried the thought with herthrough the day. "Is that all any of us are?" she wondered. "Part of the fabric of whatever place we are in, whatever timewe are in, a brick, a stone, a carved piece at the top of somepedestal? Is it we or the place which has urgency and importance? And if it is the place which has importance, why do weresist it so? Running and screaming and hating the bits of uswhich are blown about and lost upon the walls of the world?Are we dwindled thereby?" Helen did not look dwindled, butshe had an air of having retreated to some last redoubt withinherself from which she peered out upon the world, weary butindomitable. 

At noon, which was simply midway through the lightedperiod in this sunless place, Marianne felt someone watchingher, turned from her pan washing to find a dark, bulky manstaring from a corner table through the kitchen hatch at her andknew at once that this was one of the peerers who had madeher life so miserable when she had been in the library. She 

went back to her work with the uneasy feeling that his eyesremained fixed upon her. 

Helen whispered, "Marianne, that man watching you is myDavid. It must be because of that note in the window." Then she went back to ladling stew and buttering bread, watchingthe man with such ill-concealed longing that Marianne felt guiltfor having brought him there. He was a big man, with a strongface and gray-streaked moustache, and his face was full of angry purpose.

When he had finished his meal, he came by the hatch anddropped a folded piece of paper through it. Marianne put the paper to one side and kept on with the washing. She had wantedthis contact, had planned for it, and yet was now uncertain thatshe could deal with this man's needs and purposes, possiblyvery different from her own. It was only after the customershad gone and the two of them had the place to themselves thatshe dried her hands and unfolded the paper, reading it beforeshe handed it to Helen, who had not tried to disguise herinterest. 

If you want to join us, come-to the church tonight, whenthe bells ring.

Marianne regarded this thoughtfully. The dolorous ringingof the bells did not normally begin until late, after most customers had left the restaurant, sometimes not until after Helen herself had gone, after the evening rain had fallen, at the timethe Greasy Girls were parading and others avoided the walks."You don't mind?" she said. "I really want to find out...."Helen shrugged. "I'll come with you. We'll both find out."They closed the restaurant and went down the busy streetwhile there was still light in the sky, guiding themselves by thesignal tower. There was in the center of the town a tower, tallonly in relationship to the squatty buildings which surrounded it, for it had no graceful height to commend it as a building ofinterest or aesthetic value. It was simply slightly taller than other buildings, and if one scanned the circumference of thecity, one might become aware that it was the highest pointwithin that place, not by much, but by the smallest incrementwhich would allow it to surmount all other roofs. The conical roof of this tower was tiled in red so that it appeared as an 

inflamed carbuncle upon the horizon of the city. The place wascalled by everyone throughout the city the signal tower. Whosignaled from it, or when, or for what purpose was nevermentioned. The church crouched near it, half in its shadow. 

They hid themselves behind the thick pillars of the churchporch to await the coming of darkness. While it was still dusk,the Greasy Girls began to come out of their houses, headsshaved clean, bodies almost naked, all skin surfaces annointed with some ointment which made them shine in the shadows like slime-wet frogs. A few started walking down the street,were joined by others, then still others, no sound accompanyingthem but the shuffle of their feet. When some fifty of (hemhad assembled, they marched up the church steps and into thebuilding. Helen and Marianne slipped around the corner of theporch to avoid them, and entered the church from an unlit sidedoor. They were oppressed by an unfamiliar smell which arouseda kind of quasi-memory which both of them felt they shouldbe able to identify. The music oozing from the place was deadlysolemn, almost lugubrious, and the congregation bathed in thiswatery sound with expressions of drowned lassitude. Other thanthe Greasy Girls there were only a dozen or so people scatteredindividually among the massive stone benches. David gestured to them from behind a pillar, and they came to sit in front ofhim while the sad music went on and on and the hierarch sat drowsing in his high chair on the podium. David leaned forwardas though to say something just as the music trailed away intoinconsequent stillness and the hierarch began to speak.

"Tomorrow we will walk with the Manticore once more. Rejoice to walk with the Manticore, for it is the Manticore whosaves us from the horrible librarians. In that dread library ourbooks are kept, and we know that others may read our lives,take us into their power.... If it were not for the Manticore,we would have no future except to live upon those shelvesforever. But the Manticore peels us away, layer by layer, placesus upon the walls of the city where we may become part ofthe city itself, strong as its walls, eternal as its stones. As weare peeled away by the Manticore, our books dim and fade, and we pass out of the power of the librarians and into thelight. Oh, rejoice to walk with the Manticore—rejoice and sing." 

The singing began again, awful music, deep as an oceanand as black, lightless as the terrible depths of the sea. A curtainat the back of the podium swayed briefly in some errant gustof air, and Marianne caught a glimpse of the singers behind it,women, naked and oiled, shaved and shining, singing in hard,hornlike voices with only their flabby dugs testifying to femaleness. 

David whispered, "Follow me when we go out," which aftera time they did, waiting until the procession of Greasy Girlshad departed and then trailing him as he led them down darkside streets and into an area of high, blank-faced warehouseswith railway sidings where little red lights gleamed like hungryeyes and a floodlamp blared threat against a wall alive withhunted figures, swarming with fearful faces and pleading hands.He took them into an alleyway, through a hidden door at thebase of some black, featureless building. They heard voicesbefore they came into the room, a room which reminded Marianne of the sub-basement rooms of the library, half full of discarded junk, the other half-filled by the dozen people sittingaround an old table. Marianne had only a moment to hear thevoices before she was grabbed by harsh hands and thrust violently against a wall.

"I took them to church," David said to the assembly. "There'sjust the two of them. Nobody followed them. This one is Helen.She says she was married to me once. The other one is the onefrom the library."

"Let go of me," Marianne snarled, almost weeping. "I amnot from the library. My name is Marianne, and I'm not fromthe library." Two of the conspirators had risen to take Helen'sarms, keeping her from interfering. Helen wrestled with themangrily, but they held her fast.

"Is that so?" asked a white-haired man with a beard down to his belly, wild eyes under tufts of spiky brows staring at her."We know that no one comes from there. And yet there arealways people there, and you are the only one who has everescaped."

"Don't be silly," she hissed. "People left there every night."A hard, leaden anger was forming inside her, spinning like aflywheel.

"Really? Did you have the impression that others of the 

library staff left there at night?"

"They went home at night," she said. "Of course they did."

"Ah. You say they went home at night. Those of us outsidenever saw anyone leave, did you knew that?""But I was always alone at night. Absolutely alone!""And yet no one left. Believe me, that is true. Though, to

lend credence to what you say, it is also true that you were theonly one we could see at night, though we could see othersfrom time to time in the day. Interesting. Did you know thatsince you have come, the Manticore walks more frequentlythan before?" 

"I—I didn't know. I'm sure it has nothing to do with me...."As she said this, she knew it was not true, and the heavy whowithin spun a little faster.

"That is unlikely. Before you came to the library, the Manticore walked one day in ten....

"One day in ten. We considered it a kind of measure of themalignity of the place, not decently hidden under a cloak ofsickness or a robe of age, but ourselves, peeling away layerby layer, visible on every side, confronted at every turning,our own eyes peering at us from the walls, our own mouthspleading with us, our own arms flung out to evoke our pity.What was malign about the city, we thought, is that the Manticore walked one day in ten, a beastly decimator, herdingbefore him our own mortality.

"Well, there are those—in this room—who will not bear it, who will trap the Manticore and kill him rather than be torn off in this fashion, sheet by sheet, as a calendar is torn. We had begun to make plans....

"But since you have come, the Manticore walks more often.He walks one day in seven, one day in five. Soon, perhaps,every day?"

"Are you asking me?" Her voice trembled with threat.

"No. I am telling you. Explaining why we sought you out.Since you came, the fury of the place is doubled, and wedemand to know why." 

"We will know why," shrilled a tall, cloud-haired woman who struck the table with her fist, raising a cloud of dust. "Wewill know why. We saw you outside the Manticore's window. 

We saw you looking at it long, eye to eye. We believe youknow the Manticore! We believe you know who, or what, heis, and how he may be conquered. We believe you are some kin of his!" 

Within her the wheel sped once again, making a hum whichfilled her blood, set it singing. "How would I know the Manticore's name? Why would it be kin of mine?"

They looked uncertainly at one another, confused by hertone. Though they held her against the wall, she blazed at themfrom among their constraining arms. They could only repeat themselves. 

"We believe you know the Manticore, know what it is, who it is. How, or why, or when—those are not important questions.You looked at the Manticore as though you recognized him,as though you knew his name."

"I do not know its name. I don't know anything about thisplace. I have no memory of what I was before. If you are doingsomething to get away, I will help you or go with you, but ifyou go on asking me questions like this, I can't help you." She felt hot, a^-ry tears, swallowed them, let herself snarl."Why am I here? Why are you here?"

The white-bearded one nodded, almost in satisfaction. "You have seen the Greasy Girls. They walk where the Manticorewalks. Bald, shaven, naked, lean as leather, oiled to a brighter gloss than finished marble, walking and chanting before theManticore, worshiping the Manticore. The Manticore laughsat them, kills one occasionally, lets them march and postureas they will. We are their antithesis. We will not accept, willnot resign ourselves, will not permit, will not believe. We willresist! We will find a way to get into the library and bum it.We will find a way to kill the Manticore. We will find a way out of here. 

"And we will make you help us, one way or another. Wedon't believe you when you tell us you do not know the Manticore—though you may not realize that you lie to us. Still, this is enough for tonight. Tomorrow, the Manticore walks. Soon after that, we will meet again." They let go of her and turned away, and Helen took her arm, perhaps in comfort,perhaps for comfort. 

David took them out of the place, the silence behind thembreaking into confused expostulation as they went through thedoor into the night. Helen angrily rubbed her arms where shehad been held. "Damn it, David," she snarled. "That was a rotten thing to do."

He nibbed his wrist across his moustache, face as hard and determined as it had been since they had seen him at noon. "Ifwe were once married, woman, if we were, then you wouldforgive me, knowing that what I do is necessary. If we werenot, then it is of no concern of mine what you think of me.You may have resigned yourself to this place. I have not. What the Leader said is true. We will kill the Manticore or die, but we will not merely live here to see our souls pasted upon thewalls of this place...."

He left them with that, with no farewell, without a wave of hand or a gesture, and Helen began to cry silently, tears runningdown her strong face without a sound. "We're going to Mr. Grassi's place," Marianne said. "He has a book I have to use."

Helen, busy wiping her eyes, did not answer, but neitherdid she object. Though it took them some time to find wherethey were and determine in which direction Manticore Street would be found, Helen said nothing in all that time.

In the second floor apartment, Mr. Grassi was unsurprisedat their arrival. Marianne went directly to the shelf where herbook, To Hold Forever, was found. 

"Oh, my dear pretty lady," said Grassi. "Are you lookingfor more answers to other questions yet?"

"One question only," she said briefly. "Which we should have asked when I was here last, Mr. Grassi. We should not have waited, should not have delayed. We should have askedthe book then how to send the message you wondered about.How do we call for help, Mr. Grassi? We must know, for thislast day has convinced me we must have help or be here forever." 

She let Helen tell him what had occurred as she sat down with the heavy book in her lap. Marianne paid no attention.She had begun to read at the place in the story which beganwith Grassi's question, "What do you think? A kind of underground, perhaps?" and went on through that day and the day following to the present time. She read broodingly, with deepattention, undistracted by the movements about her or the smellof the food they were preparing. Outside the windows darknessrested upon the city and only the sound of mysterious carsmoving through distant streets came through the window. Sheread and read, finally placing her hand upon the page andreading aloud.

""They closed the restaurant and went down the busy streetwhile there was still light in the sky, guiding themselves by thesignal tower. There was in the center of the town a tower.... It was simply slightly taller than the things around it, and ifone scanned the circumference of the city, one might becomeaware that it was the highest point within that place.... Theconical roof of this tower was tiled in red so that it appearedas an inflamed carbuncle upon the horizon of the city. The place was called by everyone throughout the city the signal tower. Who signaled from it, or when, or for what purposewas never mentioned.'" 

She thumped the book with her hand. "There is a signal tower, Mr. Grass!. A place to signal from or why else is itcalled by that name? So, let us signal from it."

"My dear ladies—now? In the dark? When dawn may comeat any time and with it the Manticore? Oh, surely another time,a better time...." 

The wheel within her hummed, a rising pitch of fury. "Mr. Grassi. You are fluttering, and it is unlike you. Think of yournative cunning. Think of your natural guile. Think how cleverwe are, Mr. Grassi, and let us go. Who knows what anotherday in this place may do to us? I will not wait to be used bythose plotters; I will not wait to be eaten by Madame; I willnot wait to be pursued by the Manticore. Stay or go with us,Mr. Grassi, but we will go, won't we Helen?"

The woman nodded over her pot of broth, trying to straighten the kitcheny clutter with one hand even as she reached for hercoat with the other. 

"Oh, leave it," said Grassi, impatiently. "Leave it. Whoknows. We may never see it again."They went out into the silent streets, still wet from the duskrain, lit by an occasional lamp into uncertain pools of visibility 

which they swam between in the wet light, working their wayback toward the church from which their evening's peregrinations had begun.

"I hear feet behind us," said Helen, almost whispering. "Following us."

"Probably David," said Marianne in a definite tone. "Or one of the others. Pay no attention, Helen. Of course they willfollow us. Let them. Anyone who helps us helps them, thoughthey may not know it."

"I hear cars moving."

"They always move at night," said Marianne. "When I wasin the library, I used to listen to them at night, wondering wherethey came from, where they were going. I have never seen them in the daytime at all, but at night they come out after therain, to make that wet, swishing sound throughout the night.Perhaps the rain brings them, like frogs. Perhaps they bringthe rain and cannot move when the streets are dry. Pay no attention." 

"There are bells ringing."

"They are ringing the bells in the church. Sometimes theydo that at night. Whoever does it makes a very soft sound,though, not clamorous as in the day. Pay no attention, Helen.It will help guide us where we are going."

And, indeed, the soft ringing of the bells did guide themthrough the wet streets while behind them in the city the soundsof cars and footsteps increased as though a skulking assemblygathered elsewhere and increased with each moment. Theycame at last to the church, passed before its bulbous pillars,and stood at the foot of the signal tower. In the church there was singing, sad as tears; the sound lapped them in anguishedwaves where they stood.

"I know," said Helen. "I will pay no attention to it."Marianne smiled. Had she seen it, Helen would have been surprised at the cold efficiency of that smile.

The stairs wound up the outside of the tower for at leasthalf its height then entered through an arched opening into alightless interior. From where they stood the heavy tower rooflowered down at them like brows over the shadowed eye holesof the high arcade. Marianne set her foot upon the step andthe singing behind her grew in intensity even as the bells began ringing more loudly. Resolutely, she ignored this and went on,Helen and Mr. Grassi behind her, the sound growing momentby moment into a cacophony, a tumult, the swishing of thecars and the tread of many feet underlaying other sounds witha constant susurrus as they climbed. Far away she thought sheheard the crash of breaking glass and she turned to see theexpression of surprise and fear on both faces behind her. "Wewould probably not be able to hear the Manticore's windowbreaking from here," she said. "Pay no attention."

They were not long in doubt, for the next sound they heardwas the unmistakable roar of the Manticore, far off yet infinitelyominous. They hurried up the steps, curling around the squattytower once, twice, three times widdershins. Before them the arched opening into darkness gaped like a mouth, and theystopped as if by common consent before entering it. Below them 011 the street, things gathered, vision swam, and a file ofGreasy Girls began to assemble at the corner. There were bulkyshadows at the base of the tower, and Marianne saw one or two of them start up the tower stair. "David is there," she toldHelen. "With others. It seems we are together in this, whether or no." 

They hesitated at the dark opening. There was no door, nosign that there had ever been a door, and yet the impressionof a definite barrier within that opening was clear to each ofthem. "Shall we risk what waits within?" asked Marianne. "Or do you think we only imagine it?"

"Something there," said Helen.

Grassi nodded, put out a hand to feel of the darkness asthough he measured velvet for a robe. "Yes," he said, "something there, and yet I do not think it menaces us."

"Then we gain nothing by standing," said Marianne, pushing her way through the opening and into the tower. There wasno light inside, and they fumbled their way around the stonewalls until they encountered the stairs once more and couldfumble their way up that twisting, railless flight. Graduallytheir eyes became used to the darkness, became accustomedto the velvet shadow, and they saw draperies as of mist againstthe dark. Faces of smoke. Hands which reached foggy fingerstoward them. Voices of vapor. Marianne stopped climbing, satdown with her back against the wall and her hands held before her to warn away whatever it was which shifted and swam atthe edges of her sight.

"Ghosts...." whispered Helen.

"Peeled ones," corrected Grassi in an awed tone. "Those whom the Manticore has chased to the edges of oblivion."

A sigh ran among the shifting shapes. Marianne could seethem more clearly now, forms of virtual transparency throughwhich one might see the ghostly hearts beating slowly, thepulsing blood coursing through pale veins, translucent orbs ofeyes staring at them through the darkness. Even as she watched,one of the figures threw up its gray arms and opened its mouthin a long, silent scream which echoed down the tower in asingle pulse of agony, then came apart into shreds before her eyes, fading into the gloom, into nothingness. Around this disappeared one was an agitation of ghosts, a turmoil of spiritsand a soundless wailing which bit at them like the shriek ofunoiled hinges on old vaults.

The anger within Marianne deepened, began to sing. "Thereis nothing we can do for them," she said to the others, beginningto climb once more. "We save them if we save ourselves. Otherwise, there is nothing for them or for us. Come, quickly.The Manticore is hunting through the streets."

Though the tower had not looked very tall from the street,from within it seemed to extend endlessly upward, and theyturned around and around as they climbed, still widdershins,the world beginning to spin beneath them. At last they reacheda flat platform and felt a ladder upon the wall. At the top ofthe ladder was a trapdoor, and it opened at their combinedstrength to let them out into the room at the top of the tower.The room was strewn with rubbish, with broken picture framesand trash and blown leaves from trees which had never existed in this place. In the center of the room was a fireplace withouta chimney, simply a raised platform made up of large stonescemented together. Marianne did not wait. She began scavenging immediately among the broken frames, stripping a canvas away from its frame and piling the broken sticks upon thehearth. The picture had been of a naked girl carrying a lightin a dark, frightening street.

"I pray," she begged them, "that one of you has a match.Without it, I fear we're done." 

"Always," said Helen, rummaging in her pockets. "One must never be without fire...." 

Below them in the nearby street the roar of the Manticorebecame one with a roar from the crowd. Marianne heard a trumpet bray, somewhere, or a car horn, as she fidgeted whileHelen searched. At last the woman found what she had looked for, half a dozen wooden matches, two of them broken. They crouched beside her, cutting off the wind, while she tried tolight the broken frame with a kindling of dead leaves and scrapsof paper. The first four matches went out, caught by vagrantwind, burned out without igniting anything but themselves.Marianne gulped, wiped her hands, let frustrated fury take her."Burn," she commanded. "You will bum to summon help, because I need help. Burn." Still, there was only one matchleft when the leaves caught fire to send tentative tendrils offlame up between the bits of broken wood. Then the wood caught with a roar, the paint upon it bubbling and pouring outsmoke. They found other trash in the place, heaped it upon thesmall fire until it became a beacon of leaping red and a columnof black, roiling smoke rising upward forever from the tower.

"Now," gasped Marianne, "should we call a name? Invokea spirit? Call upon God?""Call upon Macravail," cried Grassi. "For if he hears you,he will bring God with him." 




THE DUSK RAIN wakened Chimera, sogging the rough curls ofhis mane and running across Lion's closed eyes into the comersof the nostrils, making Lion sneeze. There was no sound tohave awakened him, and he swiveled ears, trying to determinewhat quality of uneasiness it might have been which put anend to dream and brought him into this place. He rather thought it had been the sound of someone calling his name, but hecould detect no echo of that summons now. He turned his heavyhead, following the absence of sound, ears continuing to prickand twitch. This motion wakened Goat who shared the ears with Lion, centered as they were in the great arc of Goat'shorns. Through slitted eyes Goat stared calmly along the shaggyhair of the backbone to the end of his back where the flat, scaled head of Snake rested—still asleep, forked tongue flickering unconsciously—and Snake's body curved away into Chimera's tail. Lion began pawing wetness away, and Goat caughta glimpse of the dark wall which towered just behind them,arcing off into haze in either direction.

"Where are I," he mused in his throaty baah. "We? Where?" 

"Outside something," rumbled Lion, washing the last of the dusk rain from the deep wrinkles between his eyes. His headswiveled as he heard an ominous rattle from behind him, and he looked into the eyes of Snake, awake now, tail in sinuousmotion with its tip a vibrating blur. "We should be inside it rather than outside it. I don't like being outside."

Goat turned to regard the wall, forcing Lion to look in theopposite direction. Two of the Chimera's faces were back to back, able to turn completely around, as an owl's head does,which allowed Lion to look forward while Goat looked back or vice versa on occasion. Lion contested the movement, turning the neck violently as he coughed with a guttural roar, andGoat stared down his own hairy backbone once more at Snake'shead, now thoroughly awake, tongue flicking in and out as it tasted the air. 

"Why are we here?" Goat asked, refusing to be annoyed byLion's forceful behavior. "Why?"

"Sssummoned, no doubt," hissed Snake. "Ssseeking sssomeone. It would be better to ssstop all thisss ssseeking, all thiswaking in ssstrange locationsss." The rattle at the end of Snake's tail gave a dry, uneasy buzz, a humming paranoia of soundthat made Goat blink and Lion extend his claws to scar the ground.

"Who is it we are seeking?" asked Goat, almost as thoughhe knew the answer already but was testing to see whether theother parts of himself were as aware as he.

"Marianne," roared Lion lustfully. "We are seeking Marianne." "Sssilly girlsss," Snake hissed. "Running away and assskingto be ressscued." 

"She didn't run away," Goat reminded him. "She was sent, Snake." The Chimera got to its feet, heavy lion ones in frontand hooved goat ones at the back while a scaled serpent taillashed at the ground. Snake always felt best when he was lyingagainst the ground and belly scales were where belly scalesbelonged, while Lion preferred to face forward—and move in that direction. 

"I, on the other hand," said Goat to himself in a philosophical manner, "find as much to comment upon looking backas I ever might looking forward. It is, perhaps, better that Lionusually does the forward looking. Lion is not overburdened 

with scruple, with metaphysical consideration, with introspection. If it were up to Goat, Chimera might hover forever uponthe brink of action without taking it. I, however, am much needed as a kind of balance, for if it were up to Lion or Snakealone, we would be embroiled in continual calamity."

This was more or less true. Lion had few doubts about his actions. As he had said on more than one occasion, "I may be wrong, but I am never in doubt." Goat, on the other hand, wasseldom wrong but often in doubt about virtually everything.Snake did not care. Wrong or right, venom, spite, and suspicionmet either condition. 

"Have you ever speculated," began Goat, "on what a strangemosaic we are? I am continually amazed by the difference, thedistinctions, the—" 

"Arragh," roared Lion. "I am outside, Goat. I want to be inside. This is no time for lectures." He began to move themalong the wall, pace on pace of lion feet, goat hooves trottingbehind, snake tail lashing, rattling, a constant counterpoint tothe heavy breath of the Chimera, the hot, fiery breath of theChimera. "Can I bum this wall?" Lion roared, eager to makethe attempt.

Mild-voiced Goat, remonstrating, urging whenever possible a less violent course of action. "That shouldn't be necessary.We see tracks. A vehicle has come this way, from out there inthe haze toward this place." Goat saw two earth colored linesimposed upon the spongy gray-green of the plain, coming out of a nothing haze into the reality of wherever they were, vaguelyparalleling the wall, swerving to meet it far ahead.

"Tracksss mean people," Snake whispered. "It isss bessst to ssstay away from people."

"Shhh," said Goat kindly. "We won't let them hurt you."Goat was watchful of Snake's feelings. Snake's fangs restedvery near Goat's backbone, and Snake was not always logicalin his feelings of persecution.

"They could not hurt me," roared Lion. "I am too powerfulfor them. Besides, why would they? Who would wish to woundanything as handsome as I? As elegantly virile? As marvelouslystrong? As—" 

"Yes, yes," murmured Goat. "Quite right. Lion, we are veering away from the tracks. Cleave a bit more closely to 

their direction and we may come sooner to some break in thewall. Ah. We thought so. Let us turn our head a bit more— yes. See there. A gate!"

"People," warned Snake again, restlessly shifting his headfrom side to side upon its stubby neck. "Bessst to avoid. Whyssshould anyone go inssside?"

"Marianne," growled Lion. "I want her." 

"Marianne," murmured Goat, "needs help."

"Marianne," hissed Snake, "should look out for herssself asss ssshe isss perfectly capable of doing. It isss dangerousssto go sssaving people."

The gate which they approached was hardly worthy of thename, being merely a shadowy interruption of the featurelessplane of the wall, two penciled lines with a cross line above, and only the twin gullies of vehicle tracks leading to and underit signifying that something here might open. Lion scratched at it with his huge paws without effect. 

"Let us try," urged Goat. "Horns are very good for this sortof thing." He turned the reluctant neck until Goat faced forward, lowered the head, thrust the huge, curling horns against the shadowy doorway and began to push, goat hooves and lionfeet thrusting deep into the soil of the place as Chimera leanedinto the effort. Slowly, complainingly, the door opened. Chimera moved into the wall, through the tunnel under the wall,and out onto bare earth which extended from the wall itself to the outskirts of a dark, silent city. Far in the center of that citya squat, ugly tower poured smoke into the gray sky and blazedwith beacon light. Lion could hear the sound of a crowd and the manic scream of a Manticore. 

"Manticore," hissed Snake. "Vicsssious, poisssonousss.""No match for me," bellowed Lion. "I never saw a Manticore I couldn't tear up and eat for breakfast."

"We have seen very few Manticores, actually," said Goat."One or two. Both of them, as I recall, were immature at the time. Hardly a representative sample. Slowly, Lion, slowly."

Lion, not listening, bounded away toward the outskirts ofthe city and down the nearest empty street, Snake flying hideously behind. Goat sighed and began to brake the hind feetof Chimera, slowing their progress. Lion panted and growled,but Goat brought him to a halt. 

"Slowly, Lion. If you want Marianne, it would be better tofind her while both she and we are in one piece—so to speak.Let us not confront Manticore head on. Let us first see what the situation is." 

"Ssspy it out," whispered Snake. "Sssneak about a little.""Dishonorable," roared Lion. "Right always conquers. Right makes might!""Right makesss dead Lionsss, sssometimesss," hissed Snake."Lisssten to Goat." 

Snarling, but impotent to move Goat's hind feet any fasterthan Goat wished them to move, Lion abated his mad chargethrough the city streets and even allowed Goat to turn the neckabout to allow Goat some say in which way they went. Theycontinued moving toward the tower, but Goat chose dark wayswhich were free of traffic. He could hear the sounds of vehicles, always on other streets, and the roar of a mob, and these wereeasy to avoid. It was less simple to avoid the vague, swimminglight which pervaded some places, the feeling that millions oftiny beings hung about one making shadows and shifts in thefabric of the air. Still, Chimera made good progress toward thetower, and the flaming light from it came more clearly witheach cross street they put behind them.

At last they seemed to be only one street away, and Goaturged Lion toward a fire escape which zigzagged up the sideof a building near them. "Let's have a look from up there," heurged. "We should be able to see the tower and the street belowit." 

Lion shook his massive head, making the rough curls ofmane flick into Goat's eyes, and opened his mouth as thoughto roar, but was stopped in an instant by a curious pain in hisback parts. He turned his head to see Snake's head poised overa flank, one fang barely inserted into the hairy hide of Chimera.

"Lisssten to Goat, Lion. If it is going to die sssenssslessly,might as well die here. Lisssten to Goat."

Goat slitted his eyes, wondering once again at the strangeness of life and being. Seldom did he feel Snake was an ally,but in this case the serpent part was willing to help Goat in theinterest of discretion. He turned head front and tip-tapped hindfeet up the stairs behind the pad-pad of lion feet. The roof was 

flat, and they peered over a low parapet at the convocationbelow. 

Greasy Girls were dancing in the street, before and aroundthe Manticore who slashed at them, sending an occasional slickbody flying to crash into a wall and slide to its base, restingthere in limp, bloody clutter. On the outer stairs of the towerwere many bulky forms, most with weapons of one kind oranother, some with missiles which were being hurled at theManticore to increase his fury. High in the square tower, a littleabove the place Chimera stood, firelight blazed from arcadedopenings on all sides, lighting the street but leaving the outerstairs of the tower in virtual darkness. Chimera could see figuresmoving in this firelight, one man, two women, bringing morefuel for the fire. Before Goat could intervene, Lion roared, one shattering roar which sent pieces of the parapet flying into thestreet and shuddered the building beneath them. While Goat was still trying to decide what to do about this, Lion had themhalfway down the fire escape once more, and by the time Goathad formulated his expostulation, Lion had them in the street,confronting the Manticore, roaring once more to make the streetecho and thunder with the noise. 

"Beast," challenged Lion. "Horrid monster! Ugly creature!Hideous malefactor! Stand and fight, monster!"

"Monster," screamed the Manticore, throwing back hisdreadful head in a laugh which drowned the Lion's roar. "Monster. Old Crazy-Quilt! Old Bits-and-Pieces! Old Snake's Tail,Cat's Face! Look at the monster crying monster. Aha, ha, haroo, ha ha! Pot calls kettle black. Snake calls lizard low. Frog calls newt slimy. Chimera calls Manticore monster! Aha,ha, haroo, ha ha!" 

This pejorative barrage would have stopped Goat in histracks while he thought it out. Lion was not slowed by it, hardly heard it. Snake was already so infuriated by the noiseand the disturbance that his fangs were fully extended and dripping with poison. Thus Goat was bypassed, left to thinkthe matter over while Chimera went to battle. The first Manticore knew of it was that he found a huge wound slashed intohis side by fangs while claws raked at his flanks and a needlestrike told him Snake had managed to get in one bite in passing. 

Manticore turned to look into the calm and considering eyesof Goat for one split moment before Chimera turned and hefaced Lion once more. The look from Goat had been more wounding than the bites or slashes, for it had both recognizedhim and shown pity, an emotion with which Manticore was generally unfamiliar but knew to be lethal.

"Cat's Face, am I?" snarled Lion. "Feel my cat's teeth, then, monster." And he went by once more, slashing at theother side. This time Manticore was ready for him, and the great scorpion tail came down to strike Goat's back in front ofSnake's head. 

"I am immune," remarked Goat to Manticore. "Thoughvenom may give me some painful moments, it should be obvious to any sensible observer that immunity to any lastingeffects of poison would be necessary for such a creature as I.While I am able, most of the time, to keep Snake's feelingsof persecution ameliorated, from time to time even my eloquence and powers of persuasion are insufficient, and Snakeexpresses his feelings of powerlessness against the world in asly and poisonous attack...."

These words were lost in the general confusion, though Goatwent on to explain at some length the evolutionary attributesmost necessary to the survival of Chimerae. Meantime, Manticore's venom was making him unusually irritable, and at lasthe fell silent, focused upon the sensations emanating from within. 

The Manticore had fallen back, his screams betraying morepain and confusion than challenge. While Chimera was immuneto venom, Manticore was not, and Snake's bite was beginningto tell upon the monster, weakening it and making it feeble.Around it the Greasy Girls drew away, murmuring to themselves, and from the steps of the church the hierarch beckonedto them. Sorrowful music, which had stopped at the height ofthe battle, resumed once more with a funereal sound which seemed to affect the Manticore adversely for it screamed inagitation at the noise, an agonized bellowing.

High above, Marianne and Grassi watched from the toweras Helen continued fueling the signal fire. Though all threepresumed that their help had already arrived, it had done so insuch outlandish guise as to make them somewhat doubtful whether this was, in fact, all they were to expect. Thus bymutual and unspoken consent the fire had been kept burningin the hope that something else, something more acceptableand usual in appearance, might manifest itself. Now that thebattle began to howl its way toward what appeared to be a finalclimax, they had begun to doubt that any further interventionwould be afforded. 

"Is that Macravail?" asked Marianne finally, having postponed asking the question out of deference to Grassi.

"I believe, pretty lady, that it is, though I cannot say withcertainty and must admit to considerable surprise. It is not a creature I would have approached on the street with glad protestations of acquaintance. Still, there are familiar things aboutit." 

"Ah," said Marianne encouragingly.

Grassi nodded thoughtfully. "I recognize the pride in the roar. From time to time I seem to hear the goat part of itcommenting in scholarly fashion on something or other, andthat, too, I recognize. While I hesitate to say so, even the hissof the serpent part is somewhat familiar to me, though I amproud to say it evokes no general feeling of remembrance."

"If I may choose a part," said Marianne, "I will choose thegoat part."

"Forgive me for disagreeing, pretty lady," Grassi interruptedher, "but in the current situation, it seems to me that the lion part is doing very well for our cause."

She assented to this, still regarding the great teeth of thelion with no less disfavor than she regarded the great teeth ofthe Manticore. Those teeth might be of differing shapes andarrangement, but both sets served the same purpose; both werehungry, powerful, forceful, and aggressive. She did not have time to comment on this, however, for a long black car haddriven to the corner of the street where the battle raged, andshe recognized all too well the figure which got out of it."Madame Delubovoska," she sighed, a cold breath of dangergoing down her back which chilled even the heat of the fire.

"Who is this?" asked Helen. "Is it the same? Oh, by Zurvanthe Timeless, it is the same woman who sent my David to thisplace." And she raised a heavy piece of broken furniture aboveher head and cast it with all her strength toward the woman in the street below. The missile fell short, but it sufficed to attract Madame's attention to those who peered down at her fromabove. Madame's arm came up, pointing, and they heard herscream orders to the Manticore, orders which made that beast turn laboriously and tear his way through the few remainingGreasy Girls toward the bottom of the stair where he was metwith other missiles flung by those of David's party. The Manticore cowered, bleated in a strangely sheep-like way, but wasdriven forward by Madame's screams to attempt the stairway.

Chimera had been momentarily ignored in this rearrangement of the battle, an oversight which Lion—too late restrainedby Goat—rectified by an ear-shattering roar and a plunge toward the Manticore's backside. 

"You'll go blind if that stinger hits your eyes," said Goat."Your face will swell up, and you'll look terrible. You mightlose your marvelous appearance forever. Careful, Lion. Prudence. A little prudence."

"He's attacking Marianne," roared Lion. "She's mine. Hecan't have her." 

"He isn't yet near Marianne," said Goat. "That woman, onthe other hand, is up to something and is very near to us."Madame was pointing at Chimera with one hand while theother hand twisted high in the air, as though she turned a greatspigot on some unseen keg to release a force against them.Goat said again, so urgently that Lion turned to see the threat,"She is very near to us...."

Lion, as usual, did not wait on his decision but attacked the woman at once, causing her to abort the twisting motion and flee toward her car in a curiously arachnoid scramble, all armsand legs in a scurry of furious activity. From the car she criedan imperious summons to the Manticore. That beast backed down the stair, crying its pain from several wounds and thenaway down the street after the retreating car.

Chimera heard Marianne crying a trumpet call from thetower. "The library. She's going to the library. After her, everyone!" And in answer to that cry the Greasy Girls poured fromthe church, suddenly armed against what they had worshiped,the resistance fighters boiled away from the tower stairs, andHelen led the other two in a wild scramble down to the place 

where the Chimera, confused by this sudden turn of events,awaited them. 

"Marianne," growled Lion. "I have saved you." 

"Marianne," murmured Goat, "it's good that you are not injured.""Marianne," hissed Snake, "ssshould be assshamed to have ssstarted this messss." 

"Macravail?" asked Grassi doubtfully. "Makr Avehl?"

The Chimera sat down, Lion licking the blood from his feet,making a face of revulsion. Goat managed to turn the head slightly so that he faced Grassi. "Aghrehond," he said. "The beacon was your work, I assume?"

"Actually, sir, it was Marianne's. She became very determined, all at once. Very wild, almost, taking no advice at all." 

"Actually, it was I," agreed Marianne, coming forward tolay her hand upon Goat's muzzle, stroking. "I had reached theend of my patience. Though I didn't expect... you."

"What did you exssspect?" hissed Snake. "A prinssse in ssshining armor? On a white horssse?"

Marianne drew back, away from the weaving head of Snake,in so doing confronting Lion's lustfully adoring eyes. Lion shook his head, fluffing his great mane and posing for her,semi-rampant.

"Pat him," whispered Goat, "or we'll never get away fromhere." 

"Away?" She was suddenly unsure, doubtful.

"My dear, surely you don't think the Manticore and thewoman have gone forever? They have simply made a strategicretreat. It must be now, or never, don't you think? I am oftenaccused of making unconscionable delays, but my sense ofoccasion is very strong and it tells me that now is the time of their defeat—or ours." 

Marianne, hands sunk deep in Lion's mane, nodded to this."Where, where is Helen?" she asked, turning to take inventory of the little group.

"She went after them," said Grassi. "Waving a bludgeon of some sort and crying for blood. If we are to be part of thisdenouement, we had best follow." 

"If you will ride, Marianne," said Goat, "we may get on a bit faster." And he crouched the back legs a little to let her geton Chimera's back, holding herself well forward by grippingGoat's horns. They set off at Lion's usual heedless pace, Mr.Grassi puffing along behind and Marianne holding on in deepdread of Snake's fangs, so close behind her. They fled downdark streets littered with bits of the posters which were shedding from the walls as leaves drop in the fall, a constant showerof fragments slipping from the walls to pile on the streets in awhispering mass. Here and there as they ran they saw lightscoming on in upper windows. They came to a region of tall,narrow-fronted houses staring over their stoops, a littered parkaround a dilapidated band stand, shrubbery, a corner, and thenthe portico of the library itself, gray ghost light shining out atthem from behind tall, glass .doors. Around this place the resistance had gathered, figures capering around bonfires andvoices screaming defiance and threat. Marianne thought shecould see the Manticore inside the building, crouched on thegreat stairway, peering out at them, but she could not be sure.She dismounted, standing close to Chimera, one arm thrownaround its neck, cheek close to Goat's lips.

"They are invulnerable in there," said Goat. "It is a redoubt,a fortress, bound about with enchantments and spells. From there they can strike at us when they will, and all we can dois bottle them up, perhaps, for a time. We cannot get at themto defeat them. It is not good enough merely to stay hereforever, for then we might ask whether we hold them or theyus." 

"If we were in Mr. Grassi's apartment," said Marianne, "Iwould take my book and read in it, as he has taught me to do,finding in my own story the thing I must do next. Since thebook is not here, then I must simply remember what is in it."

"Can you do that?" asked Goat, curiously. "We find ourselfunable to remember accurately things that have happened inthe past. We often mis-remember them in order to make themmore logical or more appropriate to their time or circumstance,or they become mis-remembered through too frequent repetition or not being remembered enough. To remember one's own story accurately is a talent too few creatures are capable of...." 

"I will do it," said Marianne, "because it is necessary." Shesat down on the ground, leaning on one of Lion's great front legs with his massive head sheltering her from above, and puther face into her hands. The capering figures had put her inmind of the time she had seen them last, when their black shadows cavorted around the fire outside the basement room. They had been burning the book she had put out the coal chute.The coal chute. There had been a way out—for something.There could be a way in—for someone. "Mr. Grassi, find Helen, will you? Tell her to find David and bring him here. Ihave thought of a way to get in."

He came quickly, face smudged with torch soot, pantingfrom the running, face no less hard-set against her than it hadbeen when last she had seen him. "What now?" he demanded. "Have you decided to help us?"

"I was always willing to help you," she replied, "as youwould have known if you had stopped accusing me and listened.Were you among those who asked that a book be put out thecoal chute? When I was in the library?"

"He was, and I," cried the cloud-haired woman who stood just behind him. "We burned the book, and at least one of usgot away."

"If I could put the book out, why couldn't some of us getin?" asked Marianne. "We could open the doors from inside."

There was a chorus of approbation at this, interrupted byGoat and Grassi, both speaking at once. "Dear pretty lady,think, do! Could you open them from inside before?" and "If it were that simple, Marianne, I think they would have thoughtof it and set some guard against it."

"No, no," she exclaimed. "Of course I couldn't open thembefore, because I was under a malign enchantment. You toldme that, Mr. Grassi. You also said that Macravail was the experton malign enchantment, and is he not here, now? You said hewas." She stood up, away from Chimera and looked at himwith measuring eyes. "Are you, indeed, expert in malign enchantment? Can you undo whatever it is the Madame has donewith that place?"

The question was meaningless to Lion. It meant much to Goat, much of a disturbing nature, making him believe that insome other place or time Chimera might have been otherwisethan now presented to this mob. Malign enchantment. Ah. Now there was a question meriting some lengthy study. Unfortunately, there would be no time for lengthy study, or even forbrief study, for the mob gathered 'round had it in mind to forcesome issue, whether or no, and to make something happen,for good or for ill, they seemed to care not. Still, Goat's curiousmind told them that they were in some danger from this suggestion, and that if the occasion were to be saved, Goat mustdo it. 

"Marianne," he said, turning the neck so that he faced herand the crowd, "if we had much uninterrupted time, we mightdeal with Madame's enchantments. We have no time at all. Whatever we do must be done in the next moments, for she is a sly horror who will escape us if we give her time."

"Araagh," roared Marianne, sounding not unlike Lion in that moment, full of fury, the flywheel of anger within her spinning as though to fling its fragments upon all the world."Either there is too much time or not enough, either we may act or we may not, we may remember or we may not, and allat her behest. Then if there is no time to do anything sly andguileful, be done! Let us burn the building down, and her withinit!" 

Goat nodded. "Much though it pains me to say so, in thiscase—and in this case only, not to establish a precedent forfuture action—I believe you are right."

This was greeted with a louder roar of approval than before,augmented by Lion, who obviously considered the suggestiontimely. He gave Goat no further time to talk, but leaped uponthe portico and breathed flame upon the doors of the place.Inside, Manticore leaped back, bleating its odd, plaintive cry,so timid in comparison to the scream with which it had terrified the city. Still, it was a terror for no reason. Chimera's flamessplashed against the great glass doors and did no more thandarken them slightly.

"The building is brick," said Marianne. "It won't burn."

"Oh, it will bum," said David. "We have only to find theweak places. There are other doors, ones made of wood. Thereare window frames, also of wood. There are shingles, casements, porches, all of wood. Come, beast, let us find the wayto kindle this fire...." And the mob swept away, leaving Grassiand Marianne to sit alone upon the curb. 

"Well, lady, it seems we have made a great turmoil here. 

You are suddenly so forceful, you have taken this world in astorm. Tsk. I was not even needed." 

"Oh, you were," she hugged him briefly. "Certainly you were. It's just that I finally got tired of flopping about in thisridiculous world. I mean, why hadn't it occurred to us howsilly it was to run from a stuffed Manticore? Had you thoughtof that? The thing is stuffed! It lives in a taxidermist's window!"

"Still, it rages lively enough," he objected."Well, yes. But so do... puppets. So do... machines. So do many things which are not really alive.""Things which can kill one dead enough, pretty lady. Thingswhich can do much evil, whether they are alive or no."

'True. Still, being afraid of them rather than of the powerwhich moves them is not sensible, is it, Mr. Grassi? Or so I have told myself this night. Do you know what those resistancepeople told me? They told me that I knew the Manticore, knewits name. Was kin to it. That made me very angry, Mr. Grassi. So angry I have forgotten to be afraid." And she sat steamilylistening to the crash and roar of the crowd, the upwelling shouts as they found something vulnerable to their liking in thelibrary. Her attention was drawn to the building by a flickeringlight which came through the front doors, firelight, dancinglight from deep within the building. The Chimera had succeeded in setting the place on fire.

"All the books," she crowed, "free. All the people let go.No more Manticore." 

She spoke too soon. There was a crash of glass, a crashexactly like that with which the Manticore announced his usualwalk as the doors shattered in lethal shards and the great beaststood forth upon the porch, fur smoking, hair ablaze, driveninto madness by pain and terror. Screaming its challenge thebeast ran toward her, mouth gaping wide, slavering, teeth baredand claws extended as they tore into the ground. Chimera wasbehind the building. There was no place to hide. Sobbing,Grassi tried to get in front of Marianne only to have her thrusthim away with the strength of ten women. She rose from the curb, rose, and went on rising, higher and higher, a giantess, looming in her height as tall as the tower they had left, growinggreater with each moment, so blown up with rage that Grassicould not see her eyes where they looked down from the darkness of that looming height, though he heard her voice thundering at them like continents colliding.

"Down, dog. Down, beast. Down you fat cat, you murdering monster from a child's dream; I have had enough ofyou. I have had enough of that suffocating murderess, youraunt. You have killed what was dear to me. It was you killedCloud-haired mama, Harvey, you. I will have vengeance onyou. Run now, cur, before I squash you as I would squash a beetle on this street." 

There was silence, utter silence, and Grassi hid his head between his hands, expecting that the sky would fall. Nothing.Nothing. He peeked between his fingers to see her standingupon the curb, staring at the space where the Manticore had been. There was no Manticore. Before them the library burned briskly, sending great clouds of foul-smelling smoke into the general murk. There was cheering from the crowd. Chimera came around the corner of the building, paused when he saw the broken doors, and leaped toward them, roaring a challengefor Manticore. When this was not answered, he bounded about, repeating it. When it was still not answered, he came to Marianne and lay down at her feet, beginning to purr with enormous satisfaction. 

She put her arms around his neck and stared away into spacethoughtfully, while Goat nuzzled at her neck. Above them the sky began to lighten. The noise of the crowd grew soft, then softer still. The outlines of the city wavered, began to pulse, then dim. Grassi blinked, blinked again, and found himself seated beside Makr Avehl on a grassy bank beneath a flowering tree. Water leaping downward told him they were in mountainous country. There was no sign of Marianne. 




THAT PART OF Makr Avehl Zahmani which was of a calm and considering nature was not surprised to find itself in the forests of Alphenlicht, within sight of the Holy Mountain which heldthe Cave of Light. That part of Aghrehond which was also ofa calm and considering nature was not surprised to find HelenNavidi and her husband, David, on the slopes of the samemountain, evidently having lost their way during a mushroomhunting expedition. At least, so Helen said, shaking her headand giving every appearance of confusion. David was less sureand had the look about him of a man recovering from a seriousillness. Since the couple had disappeared some four years before, Makr Avehl was of the opinion the illness was recent andlargely illusory, but he said nothing of the kind to the couple.How they had moved from whatever place Madame had sentDavid to Marianne's own world was a mystery which he hadno time to solve at the moment, though he resolved to do it ata later time. 

That part of Makr Avehl Zahmani which was impetuous andfiery was in a frenzy to find itself thousands of miles from theplace it assumed Marianne Zahmani to be. That part of Makr Avehl crossed miles of countryside in less time than good sensesaid it could be done to lead a panting Aghrehond into the Residence and to a telephone. Phone service into and out of Alphenlicht was always problematical. After too much time and some confusion, he was connected with Ellat, where he had known she would be, in Marianne's apartment in a city thousands of miles away.

"By Zurvan, Makr Avehl, where are you? The Residence?How? When? Why didn't you..."

To all of which he merely repeated what he had been saying since she answered the phone, "Is Marianne there, Ellat? Haveyou seen her?" receiving the same answer of incomprehensionand at last, verbal confirmation. 

"I haven't seen her. Makr Avehl, I haven't seen her. About an hour ago, a man came to the door who said he had justbought the house a week or so ago and was surprised to findanyone in it. The people downstairs, Mrs. Winesap and her friend, have disappeared. It doesn't even look recently lived in down there. A piece of plaster fell off the wall in the frontroom a while ago. Something—Makr Avehl, something—"

He thought furiously, unable to think and yet forced toconsider something, whatever thing it might be. Finally, fullof passionate sorrow, he said, "Ellat. Pick up the things I gaveher—the pictures, the little carvings, that medicine bag on thewindow seat. The pot of crocuses, Ellat. If you see anythingelse there that looks as though she treasured it, bring it. Thenget out of there. The car is still there. Drive to a hotel. Whenyou get there, call me. Don't linger, Ellat. I have a feeling about this...." 

He let her go, feeling that to hold her longer on the phonemight be to hold her in some position of danger. He walked about the Residence, moving here and there like a frustratedanimal in a cage, moving, moving, not knowing where he wentor what he did. Eventually he was called to the phone oncemore to hear Ellat's voice. 

"There was nothing there, Makr Avehl. Nothing of hers at all. When I left, the walls were turning dingy. The curtains were all tattered. There was nothing in her closet, nothing inthe drawers of her dressing table. Nothing in the bathroommedicine cabinet. Only the things you gave her, and I brought them away. WhenI left, the place was all overgrown, as though no one had lived 

"Ah," he said. "Then she chose another world, somewhere else...." 

"A false world, Makr Avehl? One of the false worlds?" 

"I don't know. When I have rested, perhaps I will ask theCave. Perhaps it is not one of the false worlds at all. Perhapssome other... well. Aghrehond says that at the end she wasvery strong, Ellat, a giantess. Nothing could stand against her.She was powerful, shattering. Still, she hugged me... I..."He could say nothing more, and she asked him nothing more.

Later she called Aghrehond and learned that they had givenMakr Avehl something to make him sleep, for he had beentearing at himself in his rage and frustration until they fearedfor him. "When will you be home, Mistress?" he asked. "Weneed you here."

"As soon as a plane can bring me. I'll have to come in toVan, in Turkey. Lake Urmia is out of the question with Iran behaving as it is. I'll come to Van, Hondi. I will send word when I leave. Send a car to meet me." 

She came within the few days it took for Makr Avehl toresume the outward appearance of the calm, loquacious, humorous man he had been before, though there were shadowsin his eyes and he occasionally hissed in a powerless fury whichonly Aghrehond understood. He was, if anything, more inclined to lecture on any subject whatsoever, and it was obviousto those who knew him well that he was a man hovering at theedge of breakdown. Ellat, seeing him, was not relieved of anxiety.

"He must go to the Cave, Hondi. He must find an answer. He is eating himself up not having an answer.""So I have urged him, Mistress. He will not go. He is afraidthere is no answer, and he dares not let himself know that." 

"No. If there is no answer, he must know that. He cannot begin to heal until he knows." And she set about the businessof seeking the Cave on Makr Avehl's behalf.

He was not helpful—not resentful, not overly full of excuseor delay, simply not assisting in the process. He ate the ritualmeal without comment and without enjoyment. He was dressedin the ritual robe at dawn, for Ellat had determined that a dawn reading would be most likely to produce results. He suffered himself to be driven to the foot of the mountain where the easyslope of the trail wound upward toward the entrance of theCave, and to be urged from the car toward the ascent. Onceon the path, however, it was only the pressure of Ellat's armon the one side and Aghrehond's on the other which forced him upward. Birds were twittering their pre-dawn exercises asthey crossed one of the small streams which striped the mountain with silver sound. Far away cows were lowing in a meadow,and Aghrehond smiled, glad of the sound in the stillness ofmorning. They turned to wind their way back, then turnedagain and again, coming at last to the carven door which stoodguard at the east portal of the Cave. There Nalavi and Cyramand the girl waited, the girl Makr Avehl thought had scary eyes.Therat. They lighted their way into the Cave, down the sandy,narrow cavern which opened into the great, round hall, there to group themselves around the altar, utter the proper words,and put out their lamps.

Darkness surrounded them. Only their breathing could beheard in the quiet. Outside the sun would be rising, spreadingits rays upon the world, letting them fall upon the mountaintopto be reflected from millions of dancing leaves, from the liquideyes of deer, from the barrels of a hunter's gun, from pools ofdew and a half hundred leaping streams, down a hundred thousand tortuous tunnels and holes into the body of the mountain, some to be lost forever in that great pile, other rays to bereflected once, and again, and again, until they fell into the cavern where they could be seen, upon carvings put there whenRome was an empire, when Picts roamed in forests not yetruled by Saxons, when Charlemagne ruled.... Ellat heard Makr Avehl sigh, sigh with a hopeless sound as he turned to seewhere the light fell. 

"A child," said Therat firmly. "The light falls on a child."Indeed, above their heads the light fell on a tiny carving of achild, a young girl, standing in a garden.

"A mother," said Nalavi. "The light falls on a mother." Thiscarving was larger, older, partly obliterated by the slow dripof water over the centuries, but unmistakably a mother nursinga child. 

"A knife," said Cyram. "The light falls upon a knife." And that symbol, too, was clearly etched in the gray stone beneaththe golden ray of light which leaked down on it through all themassive weight of the mountain above.

They waited, waited, but these rays held firm and no othersbroke the dark. At last Therat murmured the appropriate prayers, the lamps were lit, and they left the place.

At the portal, they stopped for a time to look upon Alphenlicht, bright in the dawn. It was the girl, Therat, who said, "Archmage, may a Kavi offer you assistance?"

"One might, Therat, except that I have found the signs easyto read. She has gone back into childhood, and I cannot go toher there. She has gone into her own time. I cannot go. NoKavi has ever gone."

"This is true, Archmage. And yet, if I were you, I wouldconsider that time moves, and that her childhood was, but is not now." And Therat favored him with a sharp, challengingglance from her eagle's eyes before bowing deeply before him,as did Nalavi and Cyram, though ordinarily they would havebeen full of banter and nonsense. They took themselves away,leaving Ellat and Aghrehond with him on that high place.

"Childhood was, but is not now," mused Ellat. "Now what did she mean by that, Makr Avehl?"

"It means, dear Mistress," said Aghrehond, for Makr Avehlgave no evidence of having heard her, "that if the pretty lady,Marianne, went back to being a girl-child, she has had to grow up again."

"Exactly," said Makr Avehl, slapping his hands against hisshoulders as though to wake himself from some bad dream ormalevolent spell. "She has had to grow up again." 




THEY SAT AT a table on the terrace overlooking acres of lawnon which a large machine surmounted by a small man with agay umbrella over his head made undulating stripes and a smellof cut hay. The small man had a brown, round belly, an ancientstraw hat, and a pipe. Makr Avehl thought he looked supremelycontented atop the clattering machine and wished that he himself could share that contentment. Though his outer self gavethe appearance of calm, inside he was a tempest of hope anddesire and longing and half a dozen other emotions he had nottaken trouble to identify. It had taken several days of concentrated effort to find this place and another week to obtain aninvitation. The woman across the table from him knew nothingof this. She sipped from her tall glass, following his gaze outacross the lawns. 

"You are admiring Mr. Tanaka's stomach," she said. "I havethought of suggesting to him that he might wear a shut whilerunning the mower—it is his newest and most glorious toy—but he enjoys the sun so. When he gets bored with the thing,he'll let one of his grandchildren run it. None of Robert's orRichard's children will care whether they wear shirts, either, 

though their fathers are very dignified." She laughed pleasantly,sipping from the tinkling glass once more. He examined hercovertly, a slender, beautiful woman of almost fifty, hair escaping its loose bun to make a cloud around her face. "Haurvatat Zahmani, my husband, will be here momentarily. He willbe so glad to meet you. He was so excited and pleased whenyou called."

Makr Avehl cocked his head curiously. "Haurvatat? Surelythat is a very old name among our people."

"According to my husband it is. Haurvatat and Ameretat,among the Medes the twin gods of health and immortality. Idon't know what possessed his parents to give him and hissister such names except that it reminded them of Alphenlicht.I simply call him Harve. It's much easier. Of course, he insistedon passing the names on to his own children. I call his sonHarve, too, and my daughter is Marianne. It isn't that far fromAmeretat but it falls easier on American ears." 

"Marianne," said Makr Avehl. "Yes. Oh, yes."

"You say you met my daughter at the university?"

"No. I did not meet her. I did see her, and was fascinated by the family likeness. She so resembled our family that I madeinquiries—which led me to you and your charming husband.He was very kind on the phone, very hospitable to invite medown for the weekend." Actually, the process by which he hadlocated them had been the reverse of this, from them to Marianne, but he had no intention of saying so.

"My husband speaks often of Alphenlicht, though he hasnot seen it since he was a child." 

"You, ma'am—you remember it?"

"Well, not really. My father came here to the embassy whenI was only seven. He returned home several times, but I neverwent with him. Then, just at the time I would have gone, Imet Haurvatat." She laughed again. "He was a young girl'sdream, a bit older, and so good looking. I have never regretted marrying young."

"He had been married before?" Makr Avehl kept his voicecasual. "You mentioned his son, but your daughter."

She nodded, a bit sadly he thought, and shook her glass sothat it rang like little bells. "Yes. He had been married before.She died when young Harve was bom, young Haurvatat. Health. 

That's what the word 'haurvatat' means, you know. So sad." She seemed about to go on, but at the moment they heard avoice inside the nearest room and a booming laugh. The laughpreceded the man, and Makr Avehl rose to shake the hand ofthe tall, splendid form with patriarchal beard and flowing locks.Makr Avehl thought of carved frescoes at Persepolis, magnificent and ancient forms going back through the centuries. Haurvatat Zahmani might well have been the sculptor's model for any of them.

"Well, here you are, my boy. And looking exactly as I hadpictured you. We do run to family likeness, don't we, weZahmanis. Did you notice, Arti? Of course you did. He looksjust as young Harve would have.... Well," heartily changingthe subject, "we are delighted to have you as our guest misweekend. Are you here for some diplomatic reason? Or shouldI ask?" 

Makr Avehl shook his head modestly. "You may ask, ofcourse. I am here for no sensitive reason. I am here to buyagricultural machinery." Such was the reason he had inventedout of whole cloth the week before when he had found that Marianne was studying livestock management at an agriculturalcollege. "I was interested in some demonstration projects atthe university your daughter attends. Something to do with orchard production." What Makr Avehl did not know about orchard production would have filled a library, but he smiledcalmly, visualizing apples.

"Ah!" Marianne's mother smiled enlightenment. "So that iswhere you met—not met? Merely saw? Ah, well, it is truly afamily likeness. You saw her at the agricultural school. Such a profession for a woman! Her father was dead set againstit...." 

"Oh, now, now, Arti. Not dead set. Doubtful. Put it that way. Just a little doubtful."

"Doubtful." The woman made a sour mouth. "Full of furyand swearing and carrying on. Saw no reason for a woman togo to university at all. Well. He married me just out of high school. Possibly he thought someone would come along andcarry Marianne off to the altar in the same way."

"Marianne disabused me of that notion." The man ploppedhimself down comfortably, stroking his wife's hair as he went past her. "Said she'd many when she was ready and not before.I didn't believe it, thought it was all just youthful exuberance,thought she'd be tired of the work in a month. But she carriedthe day, convinced me. Very convincing young woman, mydaughter. She did take a break in the middle of her education—traveled through your country, kinsman. Said she had alwayswanted to see it, know what it was like." He smiled hugely,very proud for all his protestations. "What do we call you, myboy, '"Your Excellency'? Just occurred to me that 'my boy' probably isn't de rigeur."

"My name is Makr Avehl. Macro vail. It has a meaning 'asold and esoteric as your own, but I ignore that. If you say itproperly, it sounds vaguely Scottish and acceptable." He washardly following the conversation. So Marianne had traveled in Alphenlicht. In what world, what time had that been? Herfather, all unaware, boomed on. 

"Ha. I like that. Scottish and acceptable, is it? Well, andwhat's unacceptable about Alphenlicht? Nothing I know of.Sorry I left the place, sometimes. Though, back then, the familythought there'd be conflict of some kind. You've done well, Prime Minister. Kept the villains at bay."

"We've had help," smiled Makr Avehl, not surprised thatthey both interpreted this to mean help from the U.S. Neitherof them had known anything of the Cave of Light, or of thereal power of the Magi. Well, he hadn't expected that they would. 

Both of them looked up, across the meadows, and he followed their eyes across the granite balustrade where a horseemerged from the wood and galloped toward them over the pastures, the rider so well seated that she seemed almost to bepart of the animal. Mrs. Zahmani followed his glance, nodded.

"Marianne. I knew she'd be coming in soon. First thingwhen she gets here for the weekend is a ride, then next is aride, then after that, a little ride...." She laughed. "That loveof horses. I outgrew it myself, when I was about sixteen. Notso Marianne. Her love of horses has continued—despite everything." She shook her head, sad for some reason Makr Avehlwas not privy to. "Well, she'll be surprised when I introduceyou and tell her how you found us."

Makr Avehl was not sure of that. He was not sure of much at the moment, least of all what it was that Marianne would know, or be surprised at. He himself had not really been surprised to find her father and mother still alive, healthy, still living the life of grace and elegance which had been mournedby the Marianne he had known. He had started his search verynear this place, for Ellat had remembered what Marianne hadsaid about her childhood home though he, Makr Avehl, hadnot. Having found the parents, it had not been difficult to findthe daughter. After his lengthy conversations with Ellat and Aghrehond, he had not been really surprised by anything.

A whisper of sound drew his attention to the doors behindhim, thrust open from inside and held while a wheelchair waspushed from the house onto a ramp and then down to the shadedlawn, a white-clad attendant moving beside it. Makr Avehl frowned. The woman saw his expression.

"Marianne's half brother," she whispered in explanation. "It was a great tragedy. In fact, I sometimes cannot understand Marianne still being so fond of horses."

"Paralyzed?" asked Makr Avehl. The shrouded figure madeno movement except that Makr Avehl saw the eyes shift towardhim, as though the person there had recognized his voice.Stunned, he looked full into that immobile face. He knew that face, knew it as well as he knew his own. Harvey Zahmani, who had tried so hard to kill Marianne. Who had killed the couple standing beside him—in another world, in another time.

"Completely paralyzed," the woman whispered. "He had just returned from a visit to your part of the world—the tripwas a graduation gift from his father. He had visited an aunt in your neighboring country, Lubovosk. His mother came fromthere. He had been home less than a day when he and Mariannewent out riding..."

"Marianne told us it was a pack of wild dogs," said Haurvatat Zahmani. "No one had ever seen them before. No one ever saw them after. They came out of nowhere. The first we knew was when Marianne came riding in. Her horse was alllathered, but she was steady as a rock even though she wasonly twelve at the time. Told us what had happened, where tofind him. Thrown. His head and back must have hit a stone. He never walked again. Never spoke again." The man sigheddeeply, reliving an old tragedy. 

Makr Avehl did not answer. His eyes were utterly fixedupon the woman riding to the stairs he stood upon, fixed uponMarianne, his Marianne. His hungry, predatory soul reached for her in glad possession, his sagacious, ruminative self eagerto learn of her, rejoice in her....

She looked up at him, smiling slightly, welcoming, as thoughshe had expected him, something lightening in her eyes as ifa shadow raised, a lusty gladness showing there which broughtthe blood to his cheeks. 

Behind her on the lawn he could see what had been Harvey

S. Zahmani in the wheelchair, motionless, powerless, unable 

to do any harm, to anyone... ever.Deep inside, Snake whispered an unheeded warning.