Keith Laumer - Assignment in Nowhere

“Now, Mother Goodwill,” Gunvor said, sounding agitated. “The gentleman only wants a little help with—”

“He’d draw aside the veil of the past, the future to read more clearly,” the crone piped. “Ah, he did well to call on old Mother Gee. Now…” her tone became more brisk. “If ye’ll pour me a dram, Gunvor, to restore me strength a mite—and then ye’ll all have to clear out—except m’lord, the new gentleman, o’ course.” She grinned at me like a meat-eating bird.

“I’m not interested in the future,” I started—

“Are ye not, sir?” the old woman nodded as though agreeing. “Then it’s a strange mortal ye are—”

“…But there are some things I need to remember,” I bored on, ignoring the sales pitch. “Maybe under light hypnosis I can—”

“So… then it’s the past ye’d glimpse, as I thought,” she commented imperturbably. Gunvor was clicking glasses at the sideboard. She came over and handed the old woman a glass, then got busy clearing dishes from the table, with Ingalill and Hilda working silently beside her.

Mother Goodwill smacked her lips over the brandy, then waved an oversized brown-spotted hand.

“Away with ye, now, me chicks!” she quavered. “I feel the spirit coming over me! The power’s flowing in the celestial field-coil! Strange visions are stirring, like phantom vipers in a pot! What’s this! What’s this! Ai, curious indeed, the things the spirits whisper to me now…”

“Hmmmp! Ye can skip the spirits routine,” Hilda said. “All Mr. Bayard wants from ye—”

“Get along with ye, girl,” the old woman snapped, “or I’ll send a cramp that’ll lock yer knees together that tight the fairest swain this side o’ Baghdad’ll not unlock ’em! All o’ ye! Off, now!”

They went. Then the hag turned to me.

“Now, down to business, sir.” She used a wheedling tone. “What were ye thinking o’ giving the old woman for a handful of lost recollections? Is it a lover ye’ve forgot, the raptures of youth, the key to happiness once glimpsed and now forever gone a-glimmering?”

I was grinning at her. “You’ll be well paid, but let’s skip the rest of the routine. I’ll get straight to the point. I have reason to believe I’m suffering from induced amnesia, probably the result of post-hypnotic suggestion. I’d like you to put me under and see if you can counter the block.”

Mother Goodwill leaned forward, looked at me keenly.

“There’s a strangeness about ye—something I can’t put me finger on. It’s as though yer eyes was focused on a horizon that other men can’t see…”

“Granted I’m a strange character, but not so strange you can’t hypnotize—or mesmerize me, I hope.”

“Ye say ye’ve been tampered with, yer memories taken from ye. Who’d’ve done a thing like that to ye, lad—and why?”

“Maybe if you’re successful, I’ll find out.”

She nodded briskly. “I’ve heard of such things. Spells of darkness, cast by the light of a bloodred moon—”

“Mother Goodwill,” I cut in. “Let’s get one thing straight: every time you mention spells, magic, dark powers, or geese, the fee goes down. I’m interested in straight scientific mesmerism. Okay?”

“What, good sir? Would ye tell the Mistress of Darkness how to ply her trade?”

The routine was beginning to get tiresome. “Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.” I reached in my pocket for a coin. “My mistake…”

“Are ye saying Mother Goodwill’s a fraud, then?” Her voice had taken on a suspiciously mild note. I looked at her, caught a glint of light from an eye as black and bright as a polished opal. “D’ye think the old woman’s out to trick ye, to play ye false, to gull ye fer a new fledged chick, to…” her voice droned on, coming from far away now, booming like surf in a sea cave echoing, echoing…

“…ten!”

My eyes snapped open. A woman with a pale, almost beautiful face sat, leaning pensively on one elbow, a cigarette in her hand, watching me. Her dark hair was done up in a tight bun. Her plain white blouse was open at the collar, showing a strong, graceful neck. There was one dark curl against her forehead.

I looked around the room; it was dark outside now; a clock was ticking loudly somewhere.

“What happened to the old beldame?” I blurted.

The woman smiled faintly, waved a well-manicured hand toward a black cape on the chair beside her, a gnarled stick leaning against it.

“Rather warm for working in,” she said in a low voice. “How are you feeling?”

I considered. “Fine. But—” I caught a glimpse of a wisp of stringy grey hair under the edge of the cloak. I got out of my chair, went over and lifted it. There was a warty rubber mask, a pair of gnarly gloves.

“What’s the idea of the getup?”

“I find it helpful in my… business. Now—”

“You fooled me in a bad light,” I said. “I take it Gunvor and the others are in on the gag?”

She shook her head. “No one ever sees me in a good light, Mr. Bayard—and no one wishes to approach too close, even then. They’re simple people hereabouts. In their thoughts, warts and wisdom go together—so I fit their image of a village mesmerist, else none would seek my skill. You’re the only one who shares my little secret.”

“Why me?”

She looked at me searchingly. “You are a most unusual man, Mr. Bayard. A true man of mystery. You talked to me—of many things. Strange things. You spoke of other worlds, like this our own familiar plane, but different, alien. You talked of men like animals, clothed in shaggy hair—”

“Dzok!” I burst out. My hands went to my head as though to squeeze the recollections from my brain like toothpaste from a tube. “The Hagroon, and—”

“Calmly, calmly, Mr. Bayard,” the woman soothed. “Your memories—if true memories they are, and not fever fancies—are there, intact, ready to be recalled. Rest, now. It was not easy for either of us, this stripping away of veils from your mind. A master mesmerist: indeed was he who sought to bury your visions of strange paradises and unthinkable hells—but all lies exposed now.” I looked down at her and she smiled.

“I am no journeyman practitioner myself,” she murmured. “But all my skill was challenged this night.” She rose, went to a framed mirror on the wall, gracefully tucked back a strand of hair. I watched her without seeing her. Thoughts of Barbro, the flaming figure in the dark storeroom, the escape with Dzok from the Hagroon cell were jostling each other, clamoring to be remembered, thought about, evaluated.

Mother Goodwill plucked her cape from the chair, swirled it about her shoulders, hunching into the posture of the hag she had been. Her white hands slipped the mask in place, fitting it to her nose and mouth. The gloves and wig followed, and now the bright eyes gazed at me from the wrinkled face of age.

“Rest, sir,” the ancient face cackled. “Rest, sleep, dream, and let those restless thoughts seek out and know their familiar places once again. I’ll attend ye on the morrow—there’s more than Mother Goodwill would learn of the universes ye’ve told me lurk beyond the threshold of this drab world.”

“Wait,” I said. “I haven’t paid you…”

She waved a veined hand. “Ye’ve paid me well in the stuff visions are wrought on, sir. Sleep, I say—and awake refreshed, strong, with your wits keened to razor’s edge. For ye’ll be needing all yer strength to face what waits ye in the days yet undawned.”

She went out then. I went along the hall to my dark room, threw my clothes on a chair, fell into the feather-mattressed bed, and sank down into troubled dreams.