Gene Wolfe - The Land Across

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“You wish to tell me of it?”

“No,” I said. Only in a second or so I changed my mind. “Yes. Yes, I would. I need to tell somebody, and at the prison I didn’t even try. Somebody died. A girl named Yelena. Do you pray?”

The housekeeper nodded. She was maybe sixty or so, with gray hair.

“I don’t,” I said. “Or hardly ever. Only when she died I tried to. I knew God wasn’t going to bring her back, but I tried to talk to him anyway. I’m sorry! I’m s-o s-s-sorry!”

By that time I was backing away and starting to bawl all over again. I do not remember what the housekeeper said then, and maybe she did not say anything, just opened the door wide. Anyway I went in and followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the old table there while she made tea for us. Pretty soon I got myself back under control.

When she sat down at the table she said, “You loved Yelena but she died?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t love her. I love Martya.” I had not known that, either, until I said it. “But Yelena looked like such a nice girl and I was sitting right beside her bed. I’m an American.”

The housekeeper nodded. “I have heard of that. Drink your tea.”

I had not even known she had given me any. It was too hot to really drink, but I sipped a little. “I came to this country and I was staying with Martya and—and her family. We sort of hit it off, so we went to some clubs together to listen to music and dance. You know. Only then I had to come here.”

“You said you were in prison.” The housekeeper did not look like that worried her.

“I was for a while, yes. I’d been doing broadcasts in English, so they put me in prison for a while. They said I was going to get tried eventually, or maybe released. But it never really happened.”

She nodded, looking sad.

“Then your JAKA wanted me to help them, so they got me out—”

“The JAKA should not bother Papa Iason. He is a good man.”

I nodded, thinking of Ferenc Narkatsos. “I know he is, but sometimes they have to bother good people anyway. Sometimes they know something. You’re a good person, for example, but I’m hoping you know something about Martya that will help me find her. We think she’s probably in terrible trouble, and if she is I’m going to get her out if it kills me.”

“I would like to help you.” The housekeeper looked like she meant it. “Alas, I do not even know this person.”

“You saw her and you must have talked to her, at least a little. She was the girl who brought the hand to Papa Iason. That’s what we think, anyway.”

The housekeeper’s mouth got round and she sucked air, but she did not say anything.

“You let her in.”

She nodded. “Because Papa was here then. When Papa is here I let people in.”

“Something she said made you let her in. What was it?”

“It was nothing she said. It was the way she looked, like a dog that is kicked.” The housekeeper shut up and took a couple of deep breaths.

I said, “Go on.”

“Have you been kicked?”

“Yes,” I said. “Twice.”

“I also, but more than you. If I did not let in that girl, someone would beat her. I saw that, and that is why I let her in.”

I nodded to show I understood. “You must have seen that she was carrying something.”

“Yes. She has a basket.”

“I thought it was wrapped in a shawl.”

“She has a basket over her arm, a shopping basket.”

“Did she say anything about it?”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“What did she say?”

“She said…”

I leaned closer. “What did she say?”

“I cannot remember. I try to remember the words.”

“What was it about?”

“It was—wait! I find it now. She asks does Papa have a crucifix. She says he must have a crucifix. I say he does, and she nods and smiles.”

“You brought her in to see him?”

“Not then. He is undressing for bed. I go to him and tell him a girl is come and he may wish to see her, then I leave him to dress again. I see the girl eats nothing, all day it might be. I try to give her a piece of ham, but she will not take it. She is a Jew?”

I said I did not think so.

“She will eat only a piece of bread with butter. She eats that and drinks a little milk, and Papa is ready so she goes in. I do not hear what they say.”

I had some more questions, but they did not get me anywhere and then Papa Iason came home. He said he was very tired and I could see it was true. His face sagged. I think mine must have been sagging the same way. We went into the parlor. There was a little fire in there on the grate, and I remember what he had said about people not bringing wood in the summer. He took off his shoes, then apologized for it.

I said that was okay, it did not bother me. What did, a little, was the hole in one sock. I could see where the other one had been darned, too. So I said I wished I could give something to his church. I explained that I had no money at all, but I said I would get back on my feet pretty soon and then I would have money and would give something.

Then I told him what had happened to me, only with a lot more detail than I had told his housekeeper. I will not go over that again here, because you have already read it. I told him about Martya and Kleon and the Willows and all that.

“You’re going to lay into me good for sleeping with Martya,” I said. “She was cheating and I knew it, so I’ve got it coming. Only here’s the thing. I really loved her and I still do. I didn’t mean to escape but I was brought here at gunpoint, like I said, and I’ve never been back to Puraustays. Most of the time I was in jail, and for quite a while I was taping those broadcasts for the Legion, too. I hope I made all that clear.”

He nodded, and it seemed like he felt worse than I did about it.

“So the cops have shot Kleon, and Martya’s a widow—or I hope she is.” I took a deep breath. “That girl who brought you the hand? That was Martya. Or we think it was. Somebody wants to kill you, and that somebody’s got Martya and is making her follow orders. I mean to get her away from them.”

He did not say anything, so after that I said, “That’s what I want to do, and I’m going to do it or get myself killed trying. One or the other.”

After that Papa Iason was quiet for what seemed like a long, long time. I remember how he rubbed his jaw, and how the little fire hissed and popped. Then he said, “She told me it was an evil thing. That I must destroy it.”

I said, “You didn’t tell us that when I was here with Naala.”

He shrugged.

“Why not? I’d really like to know.”

“Because I did not destroy it, or even try to. There was a fire on the grate. I said there was none, but there was. She wanted me to put it in there when she had gone. Also to sprinkle it with holy water. Other things, too. I did not follow any of her suggestions. She thought it very dangerous. I did not. I thought it a dead hand cut off, a thing to frighten the credulous.”

“What did you do with it?”

“When she had gone? I have a leather case, strong and almost new, given me by my mother. It is a case for razors and the like. I put the hand in that case and put the case in my traveling bag, which I locked. You will ask why I did this.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I sure would.”

“I did not want Mrs. Vagaros to find it. It would have frightened her badly.” Papa Iason sighed. “After hearing this you will have more questions. Ask them.”

“Did Martya tell you her name?”

He shook his head. “You are sure this woman is one you met in Puraustays. I am not.”

I said, “You told the archbishop that the hand should be destroyed. That’s what he told us.”