From: THE CEREMONIES by T. E. D. Klein
(1984, Viking Press)
Book One: Portents
....'I'm not a young man anymore,' he was saying. 'The doctors tell me not to make any long-range plans.' He smiled wistfully and blinked his mild eyes. 'But before I die I'd like to finish a little book I've been working on. A book about children.'
They stood talking softly by the window, barely disturbing the stillness of the room. The little man's words didn't carry far, and they had a gentle, lisping quality which she found strangely soothing. His voice was high and quavery as a flute.
Though at first she'd half resented him for interrupting her reverie - why didn't he bother Mrs Schumann if he had a problem, why had he come straight to her? - Carol had to admit that there was something rather touching about the man. For all his paunch and double chin he looked surprisingly frail up close, and a good deal older than she'd at first supposed, perhaps well along in his seventies. He was no taller than she was, with plump little hands, plump little lips, and soft pink skin with little trace of hair. He reminded her of a freshly powdered baby.
'This will be a book about your own children?' she asked, preparing herself for an onslaught of reminiscence.
He shook his head. 'No, nothing like that. I've never been blessed with children.' Again the wistful smile, all the more affecting in so droll a figure. 'I do enjoy watching them, though. Like those two over there.' He gestured toward the bookshelves in the rear. 'Can you see what they're doing? My eyes aren't what they used to be.'
Carol glanced over her shoulder. Behind the central desk, two small girls darted silently through the aisles of books. 'Oh, them!' she said. She wondered if she should tell Mrs Schumann, but the librarian was leafing through a pile of catalogues. 'I'm afraid they're being rather naughty. They seem to be playing tag.'
The little man nodded. 'A game that predates history. Once upon a time the loser would have paid with her life.'
From behind the shelves came a screech of laughter.
'That's the subject of my book,' he went on. 'The origin of games. And nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and the like. Some of them go back - oh, even farther than I do!' He cocked his head and smiled. 'What I mean is, there's a bit of the savage behind even the most innocent-looking creations. Do you follow me?'
'I'm not sure I do.' She felt a flicker of impatience; he still hadn't said exactly what he wanted.
He pursed his lips. 'Well, take today, for instance, the twenty-fourth of June - traditionally a very special day. Magic spells are twice as strong right now. People fall in love. Dreams come true. Did you have any dreams last night?'
'I can't remember.'
'Most likely you did. Young girls always dream on Midsummer Eve. The night just seems to call for it.'
'But surely we're a long way from midsummer,' said Carol. 'The season's just begun.'
He shook his head. 'The ancients saw things a bit differently. To them the year was like a turning wheel, one half winter, one half summer, each with a festival in the middle. Winter had the Yule feast, summer what we're celebrating now - Midsummer Day. For us, of course, the year's been flattened to death on a calendar, and Yule is just another word for Christmas, but originally it had nothing to do with Christ. The only birth it marked was the birth of the sun.'
'Wait, you mean . . . another Son?'
He laughed, a little louder than necessary. 'No, no. Oh, my, no! I was referring to that big fellow out there.' He nodded toward the window. 'You see, Yuletide celebrates the winter solstice. Afterward, the days start getting longer. As of last night, though, we've come to the other end of the wheel. The days are growing shorter now. The sun's begun to die.'
Carol found herself watching the sunlight as it streamed obliviously through the window, its radiance undiminished. How odd, with all the hot days still ahead - how odd to think of it cooling, dying, growing dark . . .
'Long ago,' he was saying, 'Midsummer was a time of portents. Rivers overflowed their banks or suddenly dried up. Certain plants were said to turn to poison. Madmen had to be confined, witches held their sabbats. In China dragons left their caves and flew about the sky like flaming meteors. In Britain they were known as drakes, serpents, "worms," and Midsummer was the time for them to breed. They say the whole countryside shook with the sound, and that farmers lit bonfires - in those days that meant fires of bones - in an effort to drive them away. There were other fires, too: fires, dancing, midnight chants to commemorate the passing of the sun. Even today there are places in Europe where children celebrate Midsummer Eve by dancing round a bonfire. At the end of the dance,' one by one, they leap across the flames. It seems harmless enough, of course - at worst a burnt bottom or two! - but trace it back to the beginning and . . . well, I think you can guess what you'll find.'
'More than just a burnt bottom, I suppose.'
He laughed. 'A lot more! A ritual sacrifice! Or take a more familiar example: an innocent little counting rhyme like "Eeny meeny miny mo.
'Catch a beggar by the toe?'
'That's it. Except that twenty years ago, before they cleaned up the language, you would have said "Catch a nigger by the toe." And two centuries ago you'd have repeated a string of nonsense words: "Bascalora hora do," something like that. There are hundreds of variations. The one you grew up with, incidentally, puts you - hmm, let me see . . . ' He scratched his head. 'Oh, I'd say somewhere around Ohio. Am I right?'
'Hey, that's really incredible! I'm from Pennsylvania, right across the border.'
He nodded, not at all surprised. 'A very pretty area. I know it well.' Turning, he gazed dreamily out the window, sunshine playing on the little pink baby skull, the wisps of hair that glowed white with a touch of yellow.
Carol watched him in silence as he stood before her, blinking in the light. There'd been something in his tremulous old-man's voice which hinted at considerable experience, but till now she hadn't been inclined to take him seriously. Maybe it was his size, or his funny little lisp; he was far too small to be threatening. No doubt his reference to Ohio had been a lucky guess; still, she found herself oddly impressed.
Presently he turned. 'I'll tell you what's even more remarkable,' he said. 'You can trace that little rhyme of yours all the way back to the Druids.' He smiled at her look of disbelief. 'Oh, I assure you, it's quite true. Once upon a time, when Britain was occupied by the Romans, it was a sacrificial chant. The Druids had a rather nasty habit, you know - they liked to burn people in wicker cages! - and they used the "Bascalora" method to choose a victim. "Basca" means basket, and "lora"—'
'Isn't that Latin for "straps"?'
His smile widened. 'Well, bless me, you are smart! Binding straps, yes. To tie the hands.'
She was pleased to see the admiration in his eyes. 'My one good subject,' she said, and allowed herself a modest smile. Briefly another thought intruded: the night sky, a mound aglow with flames, and a girl very much like herself bound naked to a kind of altar. Something long and white was emerging from the shadows. She pushed it from her mind. 'I've had a lot of practice,' she said. 'In Latin, I mean. And your subject is - this type of thing? Childhood and primitive rituals?'
He nodded. 'More or less.'
Behind him three more children had arrived, and soon they'd be asking for her help. She would have to cut this short. 'It sounds absolutely fascinating,' she said, 'but you know, you're really in the wrong place. The books we have up here - well, they're very basic, strictly for pre-teens. You want downstairs, under Anthropology. Or you might try looking through Child Development . . . '
He nodded genially. 'Yes, I know, I've already been down there. Voorhis has a very good collection.' He patted the briefcase beneath his arm. 'Until this afternoon, in fact, I'd been looking for a certain little book, a study of Agon di-Gatuan, the so-called "Old Language." I'd searched the whole city, top to bottom, and this was the only place that had it.'
Carol was amused at how pleased he sounded with himself. 'Oh, really?' she said. 'Top to bottom? You must be pretty thorough! The city's an awfully big place.'
'Not at all. Not when you know what you're looking for.'
He smiled and took a step closer.
'And of course, the nice thing is, you get to meet such interesting people. If I hadn't come up here, I'd never have made the acquaintance of a charming young lady like yourself.'
'Oh, now you're just teasing,' said Carol, flattered and uneasy. She had heard this sort of thing before; there were always one or two old men who tried to flirt with her in a joking, grandfatherly way. 'Maybe I'd better say goodbye now. My mother always said that when a man pays a compliment, watch out!'
'What? Watch out for a poor old thing like me?' He laughed and shook his head. 'I assure you, young lady, I'm perfectly harmless!' His smile was so dazzling that she didn't stop to wonder if he wore false teeth. 'I'm nothing more than a—'
Suddenly he looked past her. Carol saw his smile fade into a frown and, at the same moment, felt an insistent tug on her sleeve. She pulled back, startled; a belligerent little white face was peering up at her.
'I have to have something on entomology,' the boy demanded, still gripping her sleeve. 'With pictures.' He seemed greatly put out by Carol's hesitation. 'Insects!' he hissed, and was duly directed one row past Outdoors and Adventure.
When she turned back to the little man, he was staring out the window. She realized that he still hadn't explained precisely why he'd come upstairs. No doubt he was just another lonely old pensioner who'd lived too long and read too much and now wanted a chance to tell somebody what he'd learned.
As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned. 'Lovely garden,' he said softly. Behind him the topmost vines arched toward the sunlight. 'I wish I had more time for nature, but that's the one thing I don't have. I'm busy every minute of the day.'
In that case, Carol wondered, why is he wasting time up here?
'The truth is,' he said, 'there's a job enough for two. I've been trying to find someone at Columbia to work with me, some bright young student, but I didn't care much for the people they sent.' He shook his head. 'No, I didn't care much for them at all.'
He gazed absently toward the garden once more, then turned back to her. 'You know, when I was downstairs today I couldn't help noticing all the scholars down there, looking oh so self-important as they pored over their books, but not really knowing half as much as they liked to think. And I suddenly asked myself, "Why bother with people like that? Why not turn to a professional? I'll bet there's a children's librarian right here at Voorhis who'd be a lot more useful to me, and who'd probably be grateful for the extra work." That's why I came up here. It was just a whim.'
Carol's interest was stirred, but so were her suspicions. Was this funny little man about to offer her a job? Or was he merely looking for an unpaid volunteer? His project sounded interesting enough, but she was in no position to work for free. She hoped he wouldn't ask her.
'I've collected a huge amount of data over the past few months,' he was saying, 'and I expect to be acquiring more over the summer. You know the sort of thing: journal articles, newspaper clippings, dissertations, and so forth. More than I'll have time to read myself.' He patted the briefcase again. 'I'm an old man - at least that's what they tell me! - and frankly, I'm going to need some help.' Laying the briefcase on the windowsill, he leaned toward her as if he had something urgent to confide; she noticed with approval, that he smelled of talcum powder and soap. 'What I'm looking for, you see, is someone to read over the material, pull out the important ideas, and, wherever possible, summarize them for me. Part-time, of course. Ten or fifteen hours a week.' He stood back, hands on hips. 'So, young lady, there it is in a nutshell.'
'I see.' She recalled the work she'd done four winters ago at college, the dark evenings at the library and the endless pages of notes. 'You want a sort of research assistant.'
'That's right,' he said. 'Someone I can depend on. Someone who's smart, who writes well, and who has an interest in the field.' He paused a moment and regarded her quizzically; the wide, gentle eyes, level with her own, seemed to float in their sockets, taking in her surroundings, her features, her hair. 'I feel certain that you meet my qualifications.'
'Well, I - I do have an interest in the field,' said Carol, not entirely sure what field he meant. She wondered if he'd mistaken her for a regular children's librarian, instead of just one of the downstairs assistants. Dare she tell him? And dare she ask him about pay?
'These articles,' she said at last. 'How would I obtain them?'
'Well,' he said softly, leaning toward her again, 'I rather like to do my own collecting.' Idly he reached up to scratch at the comer of his eye, and Carol felt a wisp of breeze against her cheek. Above her the shades billowed and collapsed. 'Sometimes I might ask you to locate a particular item for me, but that won't happen often. We'll meet each week, and—Whatever's the matter?'
'No, no, it's nothing. Please go on.' For a moment she had felt a tiny stinging just above her left temple, but already it was gone. She smoothed back her hair and tried to look interested.
'Well, I was saying— Here, let me brush you off.' His hand swept gently over her shoulder, and came away trailing several strands of her newly clipped red hair. 'I was just saying that we'll meet wherever's convenient - here at the library or at one of our homes.' He stepped back, slipping his hand into his pocket. 'I live uptown, by the way, near the Hudson. It's an easy walk from the subway.'
He paused as if awaiting a reply. Carol resolved not to give him her address, at least not for the moment. She remained silent.
He licked his lips. 'None of this is important,' he said at last. 'It can all be arranged later. Each time we get together, you'll give me your notes and I'll give you the new material . . . along with your pay.'
So there was to be money after all. 'And this pay would be—'
He laughed. 'I thought I'd mentioned that! I was thinking of twelve dollars an hour, plus expenses. Does that sound all right?'
'Twelve dollars an hour?' Hastily she tried to calculate. He'd said ten to fifteen hours a week; that would be anywhere from $120 to . . . She gave up; her heart was beating too fast. She only knew she wasn't worth that much.
He looked momentarily uncertain. 'If you don't—'
'That sounds absolutely fine,' she got out. She hoped she appeared composed, but in her imagination she was already buying the outfit she'd seen in a shop on Greenwich Avenue, and a subscription to next season's ballet. Maybe even an air conditioner, too. God loved her.
'I'm glad it's satisfactory,' said the little man, with the faintest of smiles. 'It'll be off the books, of course.'
'Off the books?' She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, except that it was something illegal. The ranks of dancers faded and the air conditioner stopped. The room grew warm again.
He nodded. Was there impatience in his face? T assumed you'd prefer it that way. You won't have to give anything to your Uncle Sam.'
'Yes, yes, of course.' This was too good to be true. 'You mean, then . . . I could keep everything.'
'That's right. You would, I take it, be interested?'
'Yes, absolutely. This is just the sort of thing I've always been fascinated by - fairy tales, and myths, and primitive religion . . . ' She finished lamely, unable to recall if this was his intended subject; he hadn't actually said anything about religion, had he?
'Excellent,' he was saying. 'You sound like just the person I've been looking for. I need someone with an inquiring mind, who's not afraid of a little hard work.' He unfastened the strap to the briefcase and began digging inside. 'It may sound old-fashioned, but— Oh, dear!' He drew forth a plump, pale yellow book and turned it over to examine it. There were catalogue numbers on the spine. 'Oh, for heaven's sake, look at this. I'm getting so absent-minded these days! I seem to have walked off with someone else's book.' He grinned sheepishly. 'I'm afraid this must belong to that nice young fellow downstairs - the one with the glasses. Do you know him? At the table by the bulletin board?'
Carol shook her head.
'Well, I'll just have to make sure to return it.' With a sigh he laid the book idly on the windowsill, then turned back to Carol with a dazzling smile. 'Now, young lady, where was I?'
No comments:
Post a Comment