Philip Dick - The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

It seemed to me as it Rachel Garret had-become very old as she sat in her wicker chair, and I thought about the ancient sibyl-I could not remember which sibyl it had been, the one at Delphi or at Cumae-who had asked for immortality but had neglected to stipulate that she remain young; whereupon she lived forever but got so old that eventually her friends hung her up on the wall in a bag. Rachel Garret resembled that tattered wisp of skin and fragile bones, whispering out of the bag nailed to the wall; what wall in what city of the Empire I do not know-perhaps the sibyl is still there; perhaps this being who faced us as Rachel Garret was, in fact, that same sibyl; in any case, I did not want to hear what she had to say: I wanted to leave.

"Sit down," Kirsten said.

I realized, then, that I had stood without intending to. Flight reaction, I said to myself. Instinctive. Upon experiencing close adversaries. The lizard part of the brain.

Rachel Garret whispered, "Kirsten." But now she pronounced it correctly: Shishen, which I did not do, nor had Jeff, nor did Tim. But that was how she pronounced it herself, and gave up on getting anyone else to, at least in the States.

At this, Kirsten gave a muffled gasp.

The old lady in the wicker chair said:

'Ultima Cumaei venit iam carminis aetas;

magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo.

lam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna;

iam nova-' "

"My God," Tim said. "It's the Fourth Eclogue. Of Virgil."

"That's enough," Kirsten said faintly.

I thought: The old lady is reading my mind. She knows I thought about the sibyl.

Speaking to me, Rachel Garret said:

" 'Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla:

Teste David cum Sibylla.' "

Yes, she is reading my mind, I realized. She even knows that I know it; as I think she reads my thoughts back to me.

"Mors Kirsten nunc carpit, " Rachel Garret whispered. "Hodie. Calamitas ... timeo ..." She drew herself up in her wicker chair.

"What did she say?" Kirsten said to Tim.

"You are going to die very soon," Rachel Garret said to her, in a calm voice. "I thought today, but not today. I saw it here. But not quite yet. Jeff says so. This is why he came back: to warn you."

"Die how?" Tim said.

"He isn't sure," Rachel Garret said.

"Violently?" Tim said.

"He doesn't know," the old lady said. "But they are preparing a place for you, Kirsten." All her agitation had gone, now; she seemed completely composed. "This is awful news," she said. "I'm sorry, Kirsten. No wonder Jeff caused all the many disturbances. Usually there is a reason ... they return for a good reason."

"Can anything be done?" Tim said.

"Jeff thinks that it is inevitable," the old lady said, after a time.

"Then what was the point of him coming back?" Kirsten said savagely; her face was white.

"He wanted to warn his father as well," the old lady said.

"About what?" I said.

Rachel Garret said, "He has a chance to live. No, Jeff says. His father will die soon after Kirsten. Both of you are going to perish. It won't be long. There is some uncertainty about the father but none about the woman. If I could give you more information, I would. Jeff is still with me but he doesn't know any more." She shut her eyes and sighed.

All the vitality, it seemed, had gone out of her as she sat in the old chair, her hands clasped together; then suddenly she leaned forward and picked up her teacup.

"Jeff was so anxious that you know," she said in a bright, chipper voice. "He feels so much better now." She smiled at us.

Still ashen, Kirsten murmured, "Is it all right if I smoke?"

"Oh, I'd prefer you didn't smoke," Dr. Garret said. "But if you feel you must-"

"Thank you." Her hand trembling, Kirsten lit her cigarette. She stared and stared at the old lady, with dislike and fury, or so it seemed to me. I thought: Kill the Spartan messengers, lady; hold them responsible.

"We want to thank you very much," Tim said to Dr. Garret in a level, controlled voice; he began, by degrees, to rouse himself, to take command of the situation. "So then Jeff is beyond any doubt whatsoever alive in the after-world? And it has been he who has come to us with what we call the 'phenomena'?"

"Oh, indeed," Dr. Garret said. "But Leonard told you that. Leonard Mason. You knew that already."

I said, "Could it have been an evil spirit posing as Jeff? And not actually Jeff?"

Her eyes bright, Dr. Garret nodded. "You are exceedingly alert, young lady. Yes, it certainly could have been. But it was not. One learns to tell the difference. I found no malice in him, only concern and love. Angel-your name is Angel, isn't it?-your husband apologizes to you for his feelings about Kirsten. He knows that it is unfair to you. But he thinks that you will understand."

I said nothing.

"Did I get your name right?" Rachel Garret asked me, in a timid and uncertain tone.

"Yes," I said. To Kirsten, I said, "Let me have a puff on your cigarette."

"Here." Kirsten passed it to me. "Keep it. I'm not supposed to smoke." To Tim she said, "Well? Shall we go? I don't see any reason for staying any longer." She reached for her purse and coat.

Tim paid Dr. Garret-I did not see how much, but it took the form of cash, not a check-and then phoned for a cab. Ten minutes later, the three of us rode back down the winding hillside roads to the house where we had accommodated ourselves.

Time passed and then, half to himself, Tim said, "That was the same eclogue of Virgil that I read to you. That day."

"I remember," I said.

"It seems a remarkable coincidence," Tim said. "There is no way she could have known it is a favorite of mine. Of course, it is the most famous of his eclogues ... but that would scarcely account for it. I have never heard anyone else quote it but myself. It was as if I were hearing my own thoughts read back to me aloud, when Dr. Garret lapsed into Latin."

And I-I, too, had experienced that, I realized. Tim had expressed it perfectly. Perfectly and precisely.

"Tim," I said, "did you say anything to Dr. Mason about the Bad Luck Restaurant?"

Eying me, Tim said, "What is the 'Bad Luck Restaurant'?"

"Where we met," Kirsten said.

"No," Tim said. "I don't even remember the name of it. I remember what we had to eat ... I had abalone."

"Did you ever tell anybody," I said to him, "anybody at all, at any time, anywhere, about Fred Hill?"

"I don't know anybody by that name," Tim said. "I'm sorry." He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"They read your mind," Kirsten said. "That's where they get it. She knew my health was bad. She knows I'm worried about the spot on my lung."

"What spot?" I said. This was the first I had heard about it. "Have you been in for more tests?"

When Kirsten did not answer, Tim said, "She showed a spot. Several weeks ago. It was a routine X-ray. They don't think it means anything."

"It means I'm going to die," Kirsten said bitingly, with palpable venom. "You heard her, the old bitch."

"Kill the Spartan runners," I said.

Furiously, Kirsten lashed at me, "Is that one of your Berkeley educated remarks?"

"Please," Tim said in a faint voice. I said, "It's not her fault."

"We pay a hundred dollars to be told we're both going to die," Kirsten said, "and then on top of that, according to you, we should be grateful?" She scrutinized me with what struck me as psychotic malice, exceeding anything I had ever seen in her or in anyone else. "You're okay; she didn't say anything was going to happen to you, you cunt. You little Berkeley cunt- you're doing fine. I'm going to die and you get to have Tim all to yourself, with Jeff dead and now me. I think you set it up; you're involved; goddamn you!" Reaching, she took a swing at me; there in the back of the Yellow Cab she tried to hit me. I drew back, horrified.