Gene Wolfe - The Fifth Head of Cerberus.pdf - fantasy - rhea137

The Fifth Head of Cerberus

“A Story” by John V. Marsch

V. R. T.

The Fifth Head of Cerberus

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she-wolf’s young.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge—

“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

When I was a boy my brother David and I had to go to bed early whether we were

sleepy or not. In summer particularly, bedtime often came before sunset; and because

our dormitory was in the east wing of the house, with a broad window facing the

central courtyard and thus looking west, the hard, pinkish light sometimes streamed in

for hours while we lay staring out at my father’s crippled monkey perched on a

flaking parapet, or telling stories, one led to another, with soundless gestures.

Our dormitory was on the uppermost floor of the house, and our window had a

shutter of twisted iron which we were forbidden to open. I suppose the theory was

that a burglar might, on some rainy morning (this being the only time he could hope

to find the roof, which was fitted out as a sort of pleasure garden, deserted) let down a

rope and so enter our room unless the shutter was closed.

The object of this hypothetical and very courageous thief would not, of course, be

merely to steal us. Children, whether boys or girls, were extraordinarily cheap-in

Port-Mimizon; and indeed I was once told that my father who had formerly traded in

them no longer did so because of the poor market. Whether or not this was true,

everyone—or nearly everyone—knew of some professional who would furnish what

was wanted, within reason, at a low price. These men made the children of the poor

and the careless their study, and should you want, say, a brown-skinned, red-haired

little girl or one who was plump or who lisped, a blond boy like David or a pale,

brown-haired, brown-eyed boy such as I, they could provide one in a few hours.

Neither, in all probability, would the imaginary burglar seek to hold us for

ransom, though my father was thought in some quarters to be immensely rich. There

were several reasons for this. Those few people who knew that my brother and I

existed knew also, or at least had been led to believe, that my father cared nothing at

all for us. Whether this was true or not, I cannot say; certainly I believed it, and my

father never gave me the least reason to doubt it, though at the time the thought of

killing him had never occurred to me.

And if these reasons were not sufficiently convincing, anyone with an

understanding of the stratum in which he had become perhaps the most permanent

feature would realize that for him, who was already forced to give large bribes to the

secret police, to once disgorge money in that way would leave him open to a thousand

ruinous attacks; and this may have been—this and the fear in which he was held—the

real reason we were never stolen.

The iron shutter is (for I am writing now in my old dormitory room) hammered to

resemble in a stiff and oversymmetrical way the boughs of a willow. In my boyhood

it was overgrown by a silver trumpet vine (since dug up) which had scrambled up the

wall from the court below, and I used to wish that it would close the window entirely

and thus shut out the sun when we were trying to sleep; but David, whose bed was

under the window, was forever reaching up to snap off branches so that he could

whistle through the hollow stem, making a sort of panpipe of four or five. The piping,

of course, growing louder as David grew bolder, would in time attract the attention of

Mr Million, our tutor. Mr Million would enter the room in perfect silence, his wide

wheels gliding across the uneven floor while David pretended sleep. The panpipe

might by this time be concealed under his pillow, in the sheet, or even under the

mattress, but Mr Million would find it.

What he did with those little musical instruments after confiscating them from

David I had forgotten until yesterday; although in prison, when we were kept in by

storms or heavy snow, I often occupied myself by trying to recall it. To have broken

them, or dropped them through the shutter on to the patio below would have been

completely unlike him; Mr Million never broke anything intentionally, and never

wasted anything. I could visualize perfectly the half-sorrowing expression with which

he drew the tiny pipes out (the face which seemed to float behind his screen was

much like my father’s) and the way in which he turned and glided from the room. But

what became of them?

Yesterday, as I said (this is the sort of thing that gives me confidence), I

remembered. He had been talking to me here while I worked, and when he left it

seemed to me—as my glance idly followed his smooth motion through the

doorway—that something, a sort of flourish I recalled from my earliest days, was

missing. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what the appearance had been,

eliminating any skepticism, any attempt to guess in advance what I “must” have seen;

and I found that the missing element was a brief flash, the glint of metal, over Mr

Million’s head.

Once I had established this, I knew that it must have come from a swift upward

motion of his arm, like a salute, as he left our room. For an hour or more I could not

guess the reason for that gesture, and could only suppose it, whatever it had been, to

have been destroyed by time. I tried to recall if the corridor outside our dormitory

had, in that really not so distant past, held some object now vanished: a curtain or a

windowshade, an appliance to be activated, anything that might account for it There

was nothing

I went into the corridor and examined the floor minutely for marks indicating

furniture, I looked for hooks or nails driven into the walls, pushing aside the coarse

old tapestries. Craning my neck, I searched the ceiling. Then, after an hour, I looked

at the door itself and saw what I had not seen in the thousands of times I had passed

through it: that like all the doors in this house, which is very old, it had a massive

frame of wooden slabs, and that one of these, forming the lintel, protruded enough

from the wall to make a narrow shelf above the door.

I pushed my chair into the hall and stood on the seat. The shelf was thick with

dust in which lay forty-seven of my brother’s pipes and a wonderful miscellany of

other small objects. Objects many of which I recalled, but some of which still fail to

summon any flicker of response from the recesses of my mind . . .

The small blue egg of a songbird, speckled with brown. I suppose the bird must

have nested in the vine outside our window, and that David or I despoiled the nest

only to be robbed ourselves by Mr Million. But I do not recall the incident.

And there is a (broken) puzzle made of the bronzed viscera of some small

animals, and—wonderfully evocative—one of those large and fancifully decorated

keys, sold annually, which during the year of its currency will admit the possessor to

certain rooms of the city library after hours. Mr Million, I suppose, must have

confiscated it when, after expiration, he found it doing duty as a toy; but what

memories!

My father had his own library, now in my possession; but we were forbidden to

go there. I have a dim memory of standing—at how early an age I cannot say—before

that huge carved door. Of seeing it swing back, and the crippled monkey on my

father’s shoulder pressing itself against his hawk face, with the black scarf and scarlet

dressing gown beneath and the rows and rows of shabby books and notebooks behind

them, and the sick-sweet smell of formaldehyde coming from the laboratory beyond

the sliding mirror.

I do not remember what he said or whether it had been I or another who had

knocked, but I do recall that after the door had closed, a woman in pink whom I

thought very pretty, stooped to bring her face to the level of my own and assured me

that my father had written all the books I had just seen, and that I doubted it not at all.

•

My brother and I, as I have said, were forbidden this room; but when we were a little

older Mr Million used to take us, about twice a week, on expeditions to the city

library. These were very nearly the only times we were allowed to leave the house,

and since our tutor disliked curling the jointed length of his metal modules into a hire

cart, and no sedan chair would have withstood his weight or contained his bulk, these

forays were made on foot.

For a long time this route to the library was the only part of the city I knew.

Three blocks down Saltimbanque Street where our house stood, right at the Rue d

“Asticot to the slave market and a block beyond that to the library. A child, not

knowing what is extraordinary and what commonplace, usually lights midway

between the two, finds interest in incidents adults consider beneath notice and calmly

accepts the most improbable occurrences. My brother and I were fascinated by the

spurious antiques and bad bargains of the Rue d“Asticot, but often bored when Mr

Million insisted on stopping for an hour at the slave market.

It was not a large one, Port-Mimizon not being a center of the trade, and the

auctioneers and their merchandise were frequently on a most friendly basis—having

met several times previously as a succession of owners discovered the same fault. Mr

Million never bid, but watched the bidding, motionless, while we kicked our heels

and munched the fried bread he had bought at a stall for us. There were sedan

chairmen, their legs knotted with muscle, and simpering bath attendants; fighting

slaves in chains, with eyes dulled by drugs or blazing with imbecile ferocity; cooks,

house servants, a hundred others—yet David and I used to beg to be allowed to

proceed alone to the library.

This library was a wastefully large building which had held government offices

in the French-speaking days. The park in which it had once stood had died of petty

corruption, and the library now rose from a clutter of shops and tenements. A narrow

thoroughfare led to the main doors, and once we were inside, the squalor of the

neighbourhood vanished, replaced by a kind of peeling grandeur. The main desk was

directly beneath the dome, and this dome, drawing up with it a spiraling walkaway

lined with the library’s main collection, floated five hundred feet in the air: a stony

sicy whose least chip falling might kill one of the librarians on the spot.

While Mr Million browsed his way majestically up the helix, David and I raced

ahead until we were several full turns in advance and could do what we liked. When I

was still quite young it would often occur to me that, since my father had written (on

the testimony of the lady in pink) a roomful of books, some of them should be here;

and I would climb resolutely until I had almost reached the dome, and there rummage.

Because the librarians were very lax about reshelving, there seemed always a

possibility of finding what I had failed to find before. The shelves towered far above

my head, but when I felt myself unobserved I climbed them like ladders, stepping on

books when there was no room on the shelves themselves for the square toes of my

small brown shoes, and occasionally kicking books to the floor where they remained

until out next visit and beyond, evidence of the staff’s reluctance to climb that long,

coiled slope.

The upper shelves were, if anything, in worse disorder than those more,

conveniently located, and one glorious day when I attained the highest of all I found

occupying that lofty, dusty position (besides a misplaced astronautics text, The Mile-

Long Spaceship , by some German) only a lorn copy of Monday or Tuesday leaning

against a book about the assassination of Trotsky, and a crumbling volume of Vernor

Vinge’s short stories that owed its presence there, or so I suspect, to some long-dead

librarian’s mistaking the faded V. Vinge on the spine for “Winge”.

I never found any books of my father’s, but I did not regret the long climbs to the

top of the dome. If David had come with me, we raced up together, up and down the

sloping floor—or peered over the rail at Mr Million’s slow progress while we debated

the feasibility of putting an end to him with one cast of some ponderous work. If

David preferred to pursue interests of his own farther down I ascended to the very top

where the cap of the dome curved right over my head; and there, from a rusted iron

catwalk not much wider than one of the shelves I had been climbing (and I suspect

not nearly so strong), opened in turn each of a circle of tiny piercings—piercings in a

wall of iron, but so shallow a wall that when I had slid the corroded cover plates out

of the way I could thrust my head through and feel myself truly outside, with the wind

and the circling birds and the lime-spotted expanse of the dome curving away beneath

me.

To the west, since it was taller than the surrounding houses and marked by the

orange trees on the roof, I could make out our house. To the south, the masts of the

ships in the harbor, and in clear weather—if it was the right time of day—the

whitecaps of the tidal race Sainte Anne drew between the peninsulas called First

Finger and Thumb. (And once, as I very well recall, while looking south I saw the

great geyser of sunlit water when a star-crosser splashed down.) To east and north

spread the city proper, the citadel and the grand market and the forests and mountains

beyond.

But sooner or later, whether David had accompanied me or gone off on his own,

Mr Million summoned us. Then we were forced to go with him to one of the wings to

visit this or that science collection. This meant books for lessons. My father insisted

that we learn biology, anatomy, and chemistry thoroughly, and under Mr Million’s

tutelage, learn them we did—he never considering a subject mastered until we could

discuss every topic mentioned in every book catalogued under the heading. The life

sciences were my own favorites, but David preferred languages, literature, and law;

for we got a smattering of these as well as anthropology, cybernetics, and psychology.

When he had selected the books that would form our study for the next few days

and urged us to choose more for ourselves, Mr Million would retire with us to some

quiet corner of one of the science reading rooms, where there were chairs and a table

and room sufficient for him to curl the jointed length of his body or align it against a

wall or bookcase in a way that left the aisles clear. To designate the formal beginning

of our class he used to begin by calling roll, my own name always coming first.

I would say, “Here,” to show that he had my attention.

“And David.”

“Here.” (David has an illustrated Tales From the Odyssey open on his lap where

Mr Million cannot see it, but he looks at Mr Million with bright, feigned interest.

Sunshine slants down to the table from a high window, and shows the air as warm

with dust.)

“I wonder if either of you noticed the stone implements in the room through

which we passed a few moments ago?”

We nod, each hoping the other will speak.

“Were they made on Earth, or here on our own planet?”

This is a trick question, but an easy one. David says, “Neither one. They’re

plastic.” And we giggle.

Mr Million says patiently, “Yes, they’re plastic reproductions, but from where

did the originals come?” His face, so similar to my father’s, but which I thought of at

this time as belonging only to him, so that it seemed a frightening reversal of nature to

see it on a living man instead of his screen, was neither interested, nor angry, nor

bored; but coolly remote.

David answers, “From Sainte Anne.” Sainte Anne is the sister planet to our own,

revolving with us about a common center as we swing around the sun. “The sign said

so, and the aborigines made them—there weren’t any abos here.”

Mr Million nods, and turns his impalpable face toward me. “Do you feel these

stone implements occupied a central place in the lives of their makers? Say no.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I think frantically, not helped by David, who is kicking my shins under the table.

A glimmering comes.

“Talk. Answer at once.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” (Always a good thing to say when you’re not even sure

“it” is even possible.) “In the first place, they can’t have been very good tools, so why

would the abos have relied on them? You might say they needed those obsidian

arrowheads and bone fishhooks for getting food, but that’s not true. They could

poison the water with the juices of certain plants, and for primitive people the most

effective way to fish is probably with weirs, or with nets of rawhide or vegetable

fiber. Just the same way, trapping or driving animals with fire would be more

effective than hunting; and anyway stone tools wouldn’t be needed at all for gathering

berries and the shoots of edible plants and things like that, which were probably their

most important foods—those stone things got in the glass case here because the

snares and nets rotted away and they’re all that’s left, so the people that make their

living that way pretend they were important.”

“Good. David? Be original, please. Don’t repeat what you’ve just heard.”

David looks up from his book, his blue eyes scornful of both of us. “If you could

have asked them, they would have told you that their magic and their religion, the

songs they sang and the traditions of their people were what were important. They

killed their sacrificial animals with flails of seashells that cut like razors, and they

didn’t let their men father children until they had had stood enough fire to cripple

them for life. They mated with trees and drowned the children to honor their rivers.

That was what was important.”

With no neck, Mr Million’s face nodded. “Now we will debate the humanity of

those aborigines. David negative and first.”

(I kick him, but he has pulled his hard, freckled legs up beneath him, or hidden

them behind the legs of his chair, which is cheating.) “Humanity,” he says in his most

objectionable voice, “in the history of human thought implies descent from what we

may conveniently call Adam ; that is, the original Terrestrial stock, and if the two of

you don’t see that, you’re idiots.”

I wait for him to continue, but he is finished. To give myself time to think, I say,

“Mr Million, it’s not fair to let him call me names in a debate. Tell him that’s not

Gene Wolfe - The Fifth Head of Cerberus.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: