Gene Wolfe - The Land Across

“I never saw it, for it had gone by the time I met her. This was when I was a young priest. But she talked of it and named it, and told me things it had told her that would unravel the tangles of certain theologians—if they could be persuaded to believe them.” The archbishop opened a little box on his desk and took out a key. For a few seconds he looked at it.

He laid it down. “One thing she told me has remained with me to this day. She said that she was the only one who ever saw the angel. It was always in another room when visitors came. She would ask it where it had been, and it would explain that it had been in the attic, or in the spring house, or in the root cellar, or in the kitchen. Nevertheless, her visitors always commented favorably on her house. How bright and smiling all her rooms were, how clean everything was, how good the air smelled there.”

It seemed like Naala was not going to say anything then, either. To fill in I said, “Why are you telling us this?”

“It is not so for my city—for our city. There is a darkness now that the sun cannot drive out, and its air is close and fetid. It is possessed.”

I nodded to show I understood.

“I do not know how to exorcise a city. Neither does Papa Zenon. We must get closer. We must find the right room. Can you help us, young man?”

I said, “I will if I can.”

“I will not,” Naala told him. “I will not, because I do not believe you. We ask an explanation, and you give us a bogey tale.”

The archbishop nodded as though he had expected it. “You want evidence, and I have no evidence. I have only this.”

He picked up the key again and unlocked a drawer of his desk. For just a second I thought the thing he took out might be a dead tarantula. When he laid it on his desk, I saw it was somebody’s hand, dried and shriveled up.

I heard Naala’s breath, a hiss like a snake’s.

“One of my priests brought this to me yesterday,” the archbishop explained. “He told me the woman who had given it to him said she had found it. He did not say where. What do you think of it?”

Naala picked it up. “It—the purple color.”

“Those are tattoos.” The archbishop had taken a big magnifying glass from another drawer. “You will wish to read them, but you will find it difficult. They are old, and the ink has blurred. Some are blasphemous. I take it that will not trouble you.”

Naala shook her head. I was surprised that she had even heard him.

I asked, “Did you say you just got this yesterday, Your Excellency?”

He nodded.

“You seem to have gone over it pretty thoroughly.”

He nodded again. “I did, this morning. It interests me, and I was looking at it when my secretary informed me that you would be here at three. You have not looked at it.”

“Not very much, Your Excellency. I’ll have a look when Naala’s through with it.”

She glanced up. “Who told you about tattoos?”

“That the ink blurs? No one.” The archbishop smiled. “I happen to know something about them. The blurring takes place only very slowly, you understand. Years must pass. Decades.”

“These are terribly dim.”

“Yes, they are. If you desire to read them, you will require my lens. Would you like it?” He held it up, and passed it to Naala when she reached for it.

I said, “That’s a woman’s hand.”

“I agree, although we may both be wrong. There were traces of wax under the nails. Does that mean anything to you?”

I shook my head. The nails were long, and some of them were broken or split.

“Some superstitious people believe that the hand of a corpse can be made to reveal the location of treasure. There is a ceremony, dark invocations, and so on. Those vary with the magician. The key points are that the hand is laid on its back and candles of corpse fat are placed upon its fingers. Five candles. They are lit with more ceremony, of course. After that, the hand is said to point to the treasure. It’s nonsense, but the wax suggests that someone tried it.”

“It doesn’t seem like corpse fat would make very good candles,” I said.

“I agree, young man.” The archbishop was smiling a little. “What I found was wax, as I told you.”

Naala laid the magnifying glass on his desk. “I must take this.” She seemed to hesitate. “I will require a bag for it. A bag or a box. Tell your secretary to bring me one.”

There was a little bell on the desk. The archbishop picked it up and rang it. It was just a little glass bell, but for some reason I did not like the sound it made.

“The hand will be returned to you when we are through with it,” Naala told him.

“You are most gracious.” He looked quite happy.

“A priest, you said. A priest gave it to you. You did not give us his name. It was Zenon!”

The archbishop stopped smiling. “No, it was not.”

“I must have the name, and it must be the correct one. We will investigate this, I think. It is with this priest that we begin. Give me his name.”

“I will, if you wish it. You would seem to think the hand involved with your search.”

Naala shrugged. “The black magicians you fear freed Rathaus. This I think. Why should your priest be given such a thing?”

“One of his parishioners brought it to him, I believe. May I ask why you believe the Satanists are involved in your case?”

I said, “I don’t think they are. Naala does, probably because a big doll with a face like Russ Rathaus’s was left in his bunk.”

The archbishop’s eyes went wide, and he leaned forward.

“I guess you know about the dolls. Only I don’t think Satanists made that one. Russ made dolls and sold them, on the outside.”

“I see.” The archbishop leaned back, smiling. “I no longer wonder, madame, why the hand interests you. Or why the presence here of Papa Zenon does, for that matter. You wish the name of the priest who brought me the hand?”

Naala nodded. “I do. The hand itself I also wish.”

“You will have it. The priest is Papa Iason. His parish is Saint Isidore’s, near the canal. I trust that you will respect his person. He is a priest of God.”

The secretary came in about then, and the archbishop asked him to find a stout box large enough to hold the hand. You could tell he was curious, but he did not ask any questions. He just hurried away.

“I have cooperated fully with you,” the archbishop told Naala. “Will you concede that?”

She nodded again, still looking at the hand.

“That being the case, will you promise me that there will be no torture of Papa Iason?”

“I cannot bind my superiors,” Naala told him.

“I ask only that you bind yourself and this young man.”

“You have cooperated with me,” Naala told him. “You say this, but I have no way of verifying it. You may be holding something back. I will now demonstrate my charity, which is very great. You have my word that if Papa Iason cooperates fully with me, I will not order him tortured. Papa Zenon is investigating for you? Investigating the bad magic?”

The archbishop hesitated before he nodded.

“I assumed, though you did not say it. My charity, the charity of the JAKA, is such that I give you, unasked, the same guarantee concerning him. If he cooperates, I will not order him tortured. You may rejoice.”

The secretary came back with a wooden box big enough to hold the hand. There were pictures on it, carved and painted, that looked pretty old. As we left, I told Naala that Papa Zenon had been a good friend to me and I hoped she would really take it easy on him.

She laughed. “We of the JAKA do not torture, but for us it is useful that others think we do. Your Papa Zenon is quite safe.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Where are we going now? To see this other priest?”