Gene Wolfe - The Land Across

“Of course no. We go to fetch the woman from prison, the Rosalee.”

That surprised me so much I did not say anything more for a long time. But when we were back in the police car and it was turning and turning through the crooked streets and scaring horses with its flashing light, Naala told me, “We never torture unless torture is absolutely necessary.”

Naala did not want to take Rosalee in her prison uniform, so we stopped at a shop and bought a checkered cotton dress for her. Naala thought it would be too small and I thought it would be too big. As soon as each of us had said our piece, we both thought it would probably be about right. When Rosalee tried it on, it was a little loose. The way I figured I had won, but it would have been dumb for me to say so. Now when I think of Rosalee, it is always in that loose red-and-white dress.

“We are going to take you to see a priest,” Naala told her. “This priest may know what happen to your husband. If he does, he may tell us. If not now, then later.”

When I had interpreted that, Rosalee asked what we wanted her to do.

“I want him to see you,” Naala told her. “That will be enough.”

Just looking at Rosalee I knew she could not figure out what the game was. Neither could I, but I kept my mouth shut. Here I ought to get to Papa Iason and all that, but before I do I want to tell you how it was when we went out the gate.

Naala was not very tall, but when she walked it was always fast, striding along with her skirt whipping around her legs. Strolling was not in her makeup. Most of the time that was all right with me. I have long legs and it was not much of a strain for me to keep up. Rosalee was small, and she had been standing at that cutting machine since early in the morning. She just about had to run to keep up, and she was gasping before we had gone a hundred yards.

Then we got close to the gate, and I saw the fear hit her. She thought the guards were going to stop her, and probably punish her for not wearing prison clothes, that they were going to rip that little cotton dress right off of her, and beat her, too.

I told Naala to slow down, but she only snorted. “For why? Because they must see my papers? These they saw when we came.”

She had the right idea. The guards just saluted her and did not say a thing about Rosalee. I figure the warden had sent somebody to tell them what was up as soon as we left her office.

When Rosalee stepped out of the gate, she could not believe it. Her eyes just shone, and you could see it in the way she held herself and everything else. Then Naala whistled and waved to our police car, which had not been parked in front because of the vegetable stands. We all piled into the backseat, Naala on one end and me on the other, with Rosalee in the middle. And I knew that she thought we were really taking her to JAKA headquarters or something like that. Naala told the driver about Saint Isidore’s, but I do not think Rosalee understood.

Naala sent our police car away when we got to the church. You could have lost that church in a corner of the cathedral, but it looked pretty new, concrete block about as high as my waist and wood above that. The dull yellow paint was not all that new, but it had not started to flake off either.

We went in there, but there was nobody there except two old ladies praying. So we went to the priest’s house, which looked older than his church, and a friendly lady about sixty told us he was in Demas’s having a meeting.

We had gotten directions, so we found the canal and walked along it for about a mile. Demas’s was what we would probably call a bar and grill in America, a place where you could buy drinks and sandwiches, roasted garlic, and raw vegetable sticks. All that kind of stuff.

It should not have taken me long to spot Papa Iason but it did, probably two minutes or a little more. There is a kind of man who goes straight from being a boy to being middle-aged. Generally he is heavy, and he starts losing his hair really early. That is what Papa Iason was like. His hair was about half gone and his face was red. I had been looking at the people who talked, and that was why it had taken me so long. He was a listener, just sitting there in his black suit sipping beer from a big mug and tapping his lips with a pencil. Later I was surprised how young he was.

Naala spotted him about the same time I did. She pulled up a chair and sat down in the group, then motioned for us to do the same. There was only one empty chair left, so I let Rosalee have it and sat on the floor up front.

They were talking about a sort of street fair they were going to put on. People would bring things they wanted to get rid of. They would be sold at the fair and the money would go to the church. Some other people would bring cider and cookies and things like that. They could give them away to attract customers or they could sell them. If they sold them, that money would have to go to the church, too. Some people were afraid these people would keep the money—after all, it was their cookies and their cider. So maybe somebody else should sell those, and they talked about that quite a while. Papa Iason wanted to trust them. He did not say that but you could tell from his face when a lady who felt the same way talked.

Also, he kept looking at Naala out of the corner of his eye. I did not bother him and neither did Rosalee, but Naala did. Naala was holding the box on her lap, and he looked at that three or four times, too.

After about half an hour he closed the meeting and asked the lady who had been taking notes to read what had been decided. She did and there was some arguing, but you could tell that three or four of them were getting pretty nervous about us and wanted to get out of there.

When most of them had gone, Papa Iason said, “I believe it is to me you wish to speak.”

Naala nodded.

“Perhaps you would like some beer. I will order it for you.”

“For me, no.” She turned to me. “Tell her she may have beer if she wishes it.”

So I stood up and asked Rosalee, and she surprised me by saying yes. I told Naala that Rosalee and I would like some, and Papa Iason ordered.

“My beer is given to me without charge,” he told Naala. “For your friends I will pay.”

Naala said, “You know who I am.”

“I believe I do. Yes.”

“His Excellency sent someone with a message.”

“Surely there can be no harm in that.”

“In which case you know also why I have come.”

“About the hand. It might be best not to speak of it loudly.”

“I have not spoken of it all,” Naala said. “What can you tell me?”

“You will wish to know whose hand it is. I do not know.”

“What do you know? Let us talk of that. Who gave it to you?”

“A woman I do not know.”

“How convenient!” Naala leaned forward. “You saw her? You spoke with her?”

“She came to the rectory. It was quite late—I had started to ready myself for bed. When she came in, she tried to give me something wrapped in a shawl. I thought it a foundling, so I told her she must sit down, that I would not take what she offered unless she did.”

“You asked her name.”

Papa Iason shook his head. “I did not. When someone brings a foundling, we never do.”

I guess Naala thought he looked like he wanted to say something else, because she said, “Go on.”

“If we were to ask names they would only lie, and the unhappy infants would be left on the doorstep in the cold. It is warmer now, but there are dogs. Strays.”

“What did this woman look like?”

“You are trying to find her,” Papa Iason said. “So am I. I will help you, and hope you help me.”

“Before I decide, I must know more. Describe her.”