Damon Knight - Orbit 19

Yes, they’re still here—some of them. Your girls burned most—I’ve never understood why. Beautiful things they were, so my mother used to tell me. Ours was white, and four stories high. They kept themselves up, you understand, the same as a woman. If there were people’s brains in them (and I’ve never been sure that was true) then they must have been women’s brains mostly. They kept themselves up. There were roses climbing up them, the same as a woman will wear a flower in her hair; and ours pinned wisteria to her like a corsage. The roofs were tight and good all the time, and if a window broke it mended itself with nobody troubling. It’s not like that now, from what I hear.

I’ve never seen one myself, not to speak of. Todd has, or says he has. He’ll tell you about it, if you like, when he comes in. But I’m not thinking, am I? Here you’ve sat all this time with your glass empty.

It’s no trouble—it’s our courtesy, you see, to host strangers. I know you don’t do it, but this is my house. Now, don’t you get angry; I’m a headstrong old lady, and I’m used to having my own way.

Don’t you use that word anymore? It just means woman now. Drink this and I’ll cut you some more cake.

None at all? I won’t force it on you. Yes, people see them—they’re still here, some of them, and so why not? Take our land; it ran back as far as you could go if you walked all day—clear to the river. The south property line was at the edge of town, and the north way up in the mountains. That was in the old days. Most of it was plowed and cultivated then, and what woodlands there was were cleared out. Then the War came. Half the autochthons were killed, like most of us; those that were left were happy enough to run off into the fens, or lie around the towns waiting for somebody to rob. We would have civilized them if you’d given us another century.

But you wanted to know about the houses. Pull the curtain there to one side, will you? It’s starting to get dark, and I always worry when Todd’s not home. No, dear, I’m not hinting for you to go—that machine of yours has a light on the front, don’t it? And a girl-woman—like you, that’s not afraid of anything, wouldn’t be afraid of riding home in the dark, I would think. Besides, I’d feel better if you’d stay; you’re a comfort to me.

Well, the War came, and most of the houses were told to hide themselves. Your people bombed them while we were still fighting, you know, and burned them after we gave up. So they hid, as well as they could.

Oh, yes, they can move around. It must have been so nice for the people before the War—they could have their homes down by the river in summer, and wherever the firewood was in winter—no, they didn’t need it for heat, I said they had fusion motors, didn’t I? Still, they liked wood fires.

So the houses hid, as I said. Hid for years while your girl soldiers went over the country and your ornithopters flapped around all day. In the deepest parts of the woods, most of them, and down in the crevasses where the sunlight never comes. They grew mosses on their roofs then, and that must have saved quite a few. Some went into the tarns, they say, and stood for years on the bottoms—Saint Syncletica’s church is under Lake Kell yet, and the people hear the bells ringing when they’re out on the water in storms.

If you’re fond of fishing, it’s a good lake, but there’s no roads to it —you’d have to walk. Your patrols used the roads mostly, so we let a lot of them grow up in trees again. The houses make false ones though, slipping through the thickets. That’s what the men say. Todd will be hunting in deep timber, where there shouldn’t be any road and there’s no place to go if there were, and come on one twice or three times the size of this room and the porch together, just going nowhere, winding down through the brakes. Some say you can follow those roads forever and never come to anything; but my Todd says that one time he walked one till it was near dark, and then he saw a house at the end of it, a tall, proud house, with a light in the gable window. My own home, that was, is what I think. My father used to tell how when he’d go out riding and not come back till midnight or later, there’d be a light burning for him in the highest window. It’s still waiting for him, I suppose.

Does anyone live in them? Well, some say one thing, some another. I told you I’ve never seen one myself, so how would I know? You’ll meet people who say they’ve seen faces staring out through the windows—who knows if they’re telling the truth? Maybe it was just shadows they saw on the walls in there. Maybe it wasn’t.

Oh, a lot of people go looking for them. There’s money inside, of course. Wealth, I should say, because the money’s worth nothing now. Still, the people who had those big houses had jewels, and platinum flatware—there was a fad for that then, so I’ve heard; and who could be trusted better to take care of it than their own homes? The ones that say they go hunting for people tell stories about little boys finding a spoon gleaming in the ferns, and seeing something else, a creamer or something, farther on. Following the trail, you know, picking up the things, until the house nearly has them. Then (this is the way the story always goes) they get frightened and drop everything and run away. I don’t believe a word of it. I’ve told Todd, if he should ever find any platinumware in the woods, or gold, or those cat’s-eye carbuncles they talk about, to turn around right then and bring it home. But he’s never brought back anything like that.

Don’t go yet—you’re company for me. I don’t get much, out here away from everybody. I’ll tell you about Lily—have you heard of her? It might have some bearing on the woman who was here before you.

I don’t know how you feel about morality—with your people it’s so hard to tell. Todd says we ought to forgive women like her, but then men always do. She was pretty enough—beautiful, you might say—and it’s hard for a woman alone to make a living. Maybe I ought not to blame her too much; she gave good value, I suppose, for what she received. A pretty face, men like that, not round like yours, but a long oval shape. Waist no bigger than this, and one of those full chests—at least, after she had begun doing what she did regular, and was getting enough to eat and all the drink she wanted. Skin like cream—I always had to hold back my hand to keep from running my fingers over it.

As well as you know me by now, you know I wouldn’t have her in my house. But it was an act of charity, I thought, to talk to her sometimes. She must have been lonely for woman-company. I used to go into town every so often then, and if I met her and there wasn’t anybody else about, I’d pass the time. That was a mistake, because when I’d done it once or twice she came out to visit me. See the two chairs out there? Through the window? Well, I kept her sitting there on the porch for over a hour, and never did ask her in or give her a bite to eat. When she went home she knew, believe me. She knew what I thought, and how far she could go. Coming to ask if she could help with the canning, like a neighbor!

Here’s what she told me, though. I don’t imagine you know where the Settles’ farm is? Anyway, up past it is where Dode Beckette lives —just a little shack set back in the trees. She was going up there one spring evening. He had sent for her, I suppose, or maybe she was just looking for trade; when a man has a woman alone knock at his door ... a woman like that—I don’t intend you, dear—why, nature is liable to take its course, isn’t it? She was carrying a load, if you know what I mean; she told me so herself. The air was chill, possibly, and it’s likely someone had left a bottle with her the night before. Still, I don’t think she was seeing things. She was accustomed to it, and that makes all the difference. Just enough to make her hum to herself, I would say. I used to hear her singing on the various roads round and about in just that way; it’s always those that have the least to make music about that sing, I always say.