The Land Across

25 HOMEWARD BOUND!

I was scared, but for some reason I had thought Volitain would not be. I was wrong. His face was as white as the dirty sheets that covered the furniture when he got out something I thought at first was a pocket watch and opened it up. Later I found out it was a fancy compass. His hands shook when he took the compass bearing, but he took it just the same. He wrote it down, too, scribbling in a little black notebook before he shut his compass and put it back in his pocket.

Then he blew out the candles.

The other noises stopped and the moan of the wind came back. The crickets started chirping again. Probably the mice came back, too, but I was not paying much attention.

“Over there,” I said. I pointed.

“Indeed.” Volitain had started off.

Martya said, “That wall. We must tear it down. Are your tools here still?”

I said I did not think so.

Volitain waved to us. “We must go into the next room and take a second bearing.”

Martya caught up with him, insisting that the treasure was in the wall.

“Which it would take us all night to tear down even if we had brought tools.”

This time I put the hand on top of an instrument of some kind. I suppose it was a harpsichord, but I do not know a lot about the old stuff. I will not tell you again about putting on the candles or reading the spell, because it was pretty much the same as last time except that all those things we woke up the first time were already awake.

Only what happened next was different. There were lights, faint lights, mostly white, some blue. Some stood still, some circled around us. I had the feeling that if one were to touch me I would die, and that I would want to die, too. I know that does not make a lot of sense, but it is how I felt. Martya started screaming, and that made everything worse. The room rocked. We talk about that at clubs sometimes because it feels like that, but here there was nobody dancing, and no music until the instrument we had put the hand on began to play.

That was when Volitain blew out the candles.

I said, “I wanted to hear it.” I was bullshitting because I wanted him to think I was tough, and I think he knew it. He did not say anything.

Martya stopped yelling and whispered, “The hand pointed the wrong way.” I was surprised she had even noticed.

Volitain shut his notebook. “It pointed the right way, although it was in almost precisely the same bearing as previously. It may be that the treasure of Demarates is buried outside. Had you thought of that?”

He did not wait for her answer, and neither did I. I followed him into the next room. It was one I recognized, the big downstairs bedroom with the painted ceiling. I had lain on my back taking pictures of that ceiling for quite a time, getting up to tinker with my lights and so forth. There was some furniture in that room, the bed and some other stuff, but we crossed the room and laid the hand on the floor, not far from the wall. Then I got a really big surprise. Volitain said, “You must place the candles this time,” and he was talking to me.

It was like getting slugged. I wanted to ask why, but I was afraid I knew. Or at least I had good guesses. The first one was that he had been scared—hell, I had been scared, and I had not done it—and did not think he could do it a third time.

The second was that he knew it was dangerous and felt like he should not have to take all the risk.

What I said was, “I’ll try, but you have to tell me if I’m not doing it right.”

He nodded. “I shall.” That is one word where they live: “doekei.”

I got another surprise a minute later. He helped. He squatted down behind the hand and lit the candles one by one and passed them to me. I thought he would have to read the spell, but I suppose he had memorized it by then. He whispered each line to me, and I repeated it loud and firm without knowing what the words meant.

To me, that was the worst one because it was the only one that made me feel like something was happening to me, not just to the room or the house. I cannot describe it any better than by saying I felt like I was turning into my own shadow. I was getting thinner and darker somehow, and I felt light enough to float away.

Other stuff was happening, too.

The one that got my attention first was that the white witch was there. Her hand was on the floor where I had put it, with the candles I had put there burning at the tips of her fingers. But it was back on her arm, with her kneeling down to keep her hand where it was, pointing slantwise into the wall. I backed away. I did not think about it, I just did it. I smelled woodsmoke from the fireplace and the sour reek of the candles on the fingers of the hand.

Another thing was that more furniture was coming back. A table and some chairs and two more chests of drawers. A wardrobe as big as the cabin on our boat had been, and a lot taller. There was a carpet under my feet, and the dustcover had been pulled off the bed. I think the man sitting up in it was screaming, but I could not hear him. He had a beard and a mustache, and I want to say that only his eyes showed how scared he was but that would not be strictly true. Something inside me kept saying, “Blow out the candles!”

Martya was on her knees blowing them out before I understood that she and Volitain were inside me somehow, and it was Volitain who had told me to blow them out.

Here is what I think. I think that he and Martya were really there, but I could not see them. The only Volitain and Martya I could see (the Volitain and Martya I thought I saw) were my idea of Volitain and Martya. Does that make any sense? Either that, or I was spread out all over the room somehow.

I wanted to sit down but the chairs I had seen were gone, and I did not want to sit on that bed. So I stood.

Martya said, “It’s in the wall!”

Volitain shook his head. “The chimney, I think.”

He turned to me. “The hand is yours. Do you still desire it?”

I said, “Sure,” keeping my voice as steady as I could.

“Then take it. Cast the candles into the fireplace, please. That I think will be the best.”

Martya said, “I will not touch it. You cannot make me.” She was trying to sound brave.

“I am not trying to make you touch it. But you are to share equally when we find the treasure of Demarates. Even now you wish that?”

“Yes!”

“Grafton brought the hand. It is his. He has placed the candles also, and recited the spell. That is much. I say it, and you need not agree with me. I do not care. I have placed the candles twice and extinguished them twice. I have lit them three times and recited the spell twice. It was I, too, who recorded the information we gleaned. That is much also. You have blown the candles out once. Nothing more than that. Now we have another task for you if you are to share with us.”

He waited, and after a second or two she said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Get into the fireplace.” Volitain pointed. “The chimney will be large enough for you when you stand. I will lend you—”

“I’ll get filthy!”

“Yes. You will. Rich, also, if you share in the treasure. Not otherwise.”

For a minute or two, I could watch the wheels in her head spinning. Then she went to the fireplace, dropped to her knees, and crawled in. Soot fell when she stood up.

Volitain went to her. “Do you want my lantern?”

Her answer was muffled by the chimney. A little more soot fell. Then she crouched again and laid a small black box on the hearth. “This is most heavy. Almost I dropped it.”

Volitain was already bending over it. He did not speak.

Martya crawled out and stood up. She was smeared with soot, but did not look as bad that way as I had expected. “You loved me once.”

She was talking to me, and it was not a question.

“Yeah. I guess I still do, but you belong to Kleon. Like I said.”

“I have asked few favors. One more, then no more ever. You must see that I get my share.”

I had been planning to already.

The box was iron and looked tough, but the key was in the lock. Volitain tried to turn it but got nowhere. “It is rusted,” he said. “If I twist harder it may break.”

That was when I remembered the oil can Martya and I had bought more than a year ago. It seemed to me that it might still be here. I had gotten it so I could oil the lock of the front door. I had done that and gotten it working smoothly….

It seemed to me that I had not taken it back and left it with the other tools. I said, “Wait here,” and went looking.

There were two fireplaces in the front hall, the reception room or whatever you call it. My oil can was waiting on the mantel of one of them, pushed away from the edge where it was not easy to see.

I got it and carried it back, feeling like a hero.

Even with a lot of oil it must have taken us fifteen or twenty minutes to get that strongbox open. I still remember how the gold glowed in the light from Volitain’s lantern, and how Martya got down on her knees beside the box (Volitain was already in front of it) and picked up coins and let them trickle through her fingers. I wished then I had brought my cameras. That was before I found out Kleon had sold them.

Here I am going to cut to the chase. Volitain divided the gold into piles, getting them as even as he could. He said I would choose first, then Martya. He would take the pile that was left. That sounded good, but I traded turns with Martya, letting her go first and taking second choice.

Maybe that was a bad idea, because it took her a long time to make up her mind, and Volitain would not let her touch any of the piles before she picked one. Finally she asked me to pick one for her, so I did and she took it.

I took one that was left, and Volitain took the third one and put his coins back in the iron box. I had been thinking about taking that too, because I was planning to bury the hand if I could get Papa Zenon to pray over it. Only Volitain wanted the box, so I let him have it. Later, after I had sold two of my coins, I bought a regular brass jewelry box for the hand. It had a red silk lining and everything. Martya and I closed it and wrapped it in a couple of plastic bags we sealed with red wax and the cross to keep the water out. I will not tell you where we buried it, but Papa Zenon and Papa Iason prayed over it.

That is almost it.

I sold five more coins, very carefully. They went for enough for a plane ticket with a lot left over. I hid four more in my luggage.

And I buried the rest. If you are smart, you can probably figure out where. Only I am not about to tell you. I counted those coins before I buried them, and I studied every one of them. Gold coins are heavier than regular American nickels and quarters, and there is a serious feel to them that regular coins do not have.

Here is almost the last thing. Martya came up to me at the airport. She had new clothes and quite a bit of jewelry. I knew how she had gotten that stuff, but we did not talk about it. The thing was that she wanted to go to America. Her idea was that we would get married first. Then the U.S. embassy would issue her a passport (and maybe Naala would kill her before we got out of the country). We could fly to America and get divorced there.

Or stay married if I wanted to. Martya was easy with that, she said. We would do just like I wanted.

I told her to go back to Kleon before she got into trouble.

Right here I need to explain that I have not quit the JAKA. I left my gun with Naala because I could not take it on the plane, but I talked to Baldy about my going back to America and everything is cool. No, I am not a spy. I am just an American employee of a foreign government, which is not at all against the law. I get paid through the embassy in Washington and run errands every once in a while. The JAKA is as worried about terrorism as the FBI is, and there is a good deal of cooperation on that.

Maybe I should tell you here that I have taken a short course at FBI headquarters, too. Like I said, cooperation.

That is just about it. Except that I switched seats on the plane. You are not supposed to, but I did. I was giving up an aisle seat for a middle seat anyway.

Thing was, the girl with the red pen was on the plane, just sitting there with her red pen and writing away on her tray table. I sat down next to her.

She looked up. “Oh! Oooh! It’s you!”

I said, “I know how you feel. It’s exactly the same way I felt when I saw you. Is it all right if I ask why you’re going to Germany?”

Pretty soon I got the feeling it was very all right since it meant we would not have to talk about her being her and me being me. I will let my lady boil it down for you. She answers me in English.

“I have win a poetry competition, Grafton. Nationwide, and I win! For the prize I go to Harvard Amerika where I may stay all year and study poetry. Do I speak English good? My teacher says good but not perfect.”

“Your teacher’s right. You speak it much better than a whole lot of people from other countries do, but it could be better yet. At Harvard they’ll have you reading a lot of English and American poetry. You’ll need really good English to appreciate everything.”

“Not many there speak as we do in my country.” My lady was looking thoughtful. “Very few, I am sure.”

I nod.

“You—you speak as my country.”

“Not perfectly,” I say. “It could be a lot better.”

“You will perhaps stay with me?” We were holding hands by then.

“I’d like that very, very much. We ought to stick together.”

So I have sublet my old apartment in New York again, and we have leased this one in Massachusetts. She goes to class most of the day, and I mostly stay right here in our apartment and write this book. At night we go to clubs and do other things. You can probably guess.

Now this is finished except for polishing up, which should be a snap. My lady does not have to go back home right away when her year is over. There is no law that says that. It is just that her prize money stops coming. We have been thinking about South America, maybe Argentina or Chile. I could do another travel book, taking another year or so, and after that I would take her home to see her family. There is her mother and father, a brother, and two sisters. Plus some uncles and aunts. We could tour her country, dropping in on the relatives while I collect facts and pix for the travel book I planned originally.

(When I explained to my editor that this would be a travel book written by an American member of their secret police and showed her my badge and ID, she just about went nuts.)

After that my lady likes Italy or Greece, and I like the Greek islands plus maybe Sicily and Corsica. I do not know nearly as much about women as I would like to, but I have not sprung that one on her yet. I am going to wait for the right moment.