Bearing an Hourglass (4 page)

“Yes. Let me get you some pajamas.” They both understood that he would be staying here indefinitely. The agreement had formed, unvoiced, as the outline of the puzzle took form. Like the puzzle, the details remained inchoate.

Norton did not ordinarily use pajamas, but he didn’t argue. He was a guest of this estate, and it was no place to flop in his clothes. Except—“Pajamas? Do you have male clothing here?”

“They were Gawain’s,” she said delicately. “You’re close enough to his size, and I’m sure he would have wanted them to be used.”

Surely so. Norton squelched his misgivings and accepted the pajamas. Orlene showed him to a well-appointed room, separate from hers; their relationship had not progressed to the critical stage. As he had known from the moment he first saw her, she was no one-night-stand girl. And he, abruptly, was no love-’em-and-leave-’em guy. He was committed for the full route, whatever it might be.

He discovered that he was quite tired; it had indeed been a long day. He undressed, stepped into the sonic cleaner, stepped out dry and tingly clean, then got into Gawain’s pajamas, reluctantly accepting their symbolism. They hung on him somewhat baggily.

He got into bed and realized that this was not the
ordinary flophouse bunk he was used to. It was an oil-sponge couch. His weight caused the sponge oil to give way and shift, but not instantly; it was more like sinking into thick mud. The truth was, mud was excellent stuff, as children instinctively knew, despite the bad press provided by their mothers. It offered enough support to prevent drowning, while being malleable enough for freedom of action. It was also fascinating stuff in itself, suitable for splashing or mudballs and body-paintings. Of course this bed was not mud and would not splash or separate, but
the feel
was similar. Norton let himself descend into its enfoldment with sheer bliss.

“How did it work out?” a voice asked.

Norton opened his eyes, annoyed. Gawain the Ghost was there, standing expectantly beside the bed. “I had almost forgotten you,” he said.

“I certainly hadn’t forgotten
you!
” the ghost replied. “Three hours—did you beget my offspring?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Norton demanded. “I thought you couldn’t enter this apartment.”

“You misunderstood. I can’t enter the room in which my wife stays, and she can’t directly perceive me regardless of where we are. But I can enter my own residence when she’s absent. I do it all the time.”

“She’s absent? I thought she was in her bedroom.”

“She is. She’s absent from this room,” Gawain clarified. “If she entered it, I’d have to vanish. I’d just step through the wall until she was gone.”

Norton thought of something else. “I understood it was death to see a ghost. That’s why people don’t like it! Does this mean I am going to die?”

Gawain laughed. “Yes, in a manner of thinking. You will die—in due course. Maybe fifty years hence. Every living person will. But seeing me won’t hasten your demise one whit, unless you should happen to die of fright.” He put his forefingers in the corners of his mouth and pulled his lips open in a grotesque face. Because he was insubstantial, he was able to stretch his mouth entirely beyond the borders of his face. “I’m not that kind of ghost. You’re
thinking of Molly Malone of Kilvarough. She’s a nice and lovely ghost indeed; if I weren’t already married—” He left it unfinished.

“Well, to answer your question,” Norton said shortly, “I did not have any intimate relation with Orlene. She’s not that kind of woman, any more than you’re that kind of ghost. And I can’t guarantee that I
will
have that kind of relation, or when.”

“Now look, sport,” Gawain said indignantly. “You’re here accepting the hospitality of my estate. You owe it to me to deliver!”

“To cuckold you?” Norton demanded, again expressing his inner irresolution. “To seduce your pristine, faithful wife?”

“It’s not like that, and you know it. You’re here to perform a service.”

“I thought I was here to do you a favor.”

“Same thing. Once you do it, you can leave. Except I still have to teach you how to slay dragons.”

“Well, Orlene is no dragon! The fact is, she is really a nice person, not a gold digger at all. If she decides not to—to want the favor, I’m not going to force it on her.”

“What do you think
she’s
here for?” Gawain demanded. “She’s a guest of my estate too!”

“She’s your
wife
!” Norton shouted. “She has a perfect right to be here!”

“Not if she doesn’t produce! Listen, Norton, I’m locked in this state until I have a proper heir. She owes it to me to generate him promptly.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you marry some slut who spreads her legs for any man who looks at her? Why inflict this on a nice girl?”

“I
told
you,” the ghost responded hotly. “There are standards to maintain. Our family is of noble lineage.”

“Well, I have standards to maintain, too—and so does she.”

“Anyway, I didn’t select her; my family did. They—”

The ghost vanished in mid-sentence. Norton looked about, startled—and saw Orlene at the doorway.

“Are you all right, Norton?” she asked worriedly. “I heard you shouting—”

And she couldn’t hear the ghost! He’d have to watch that. What had she heard? He felt a slow flush nudging up his neck and cheeks as he considered that. “I—I don’t suppose you would believe I was talking to the ghost?”

“I really wish you wouldn’t—”

“Call it a bad dream, then. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

She looked doubtful. “You’re such a good man. Do you really suffer from—”

Norton laughed, somewhat too heartily. “How can you know I’m a good man? I’m an ordinary man, perhaps less than ordinary, since I have never had much success in life. Not like you.”

“Oh, no! I am nothing!” she protested. “You glow!”

Norton studied her. She was in a pinkish-white peignoir, and her honey-golden hair hung loose about her shoulders. There was something enormously appealing about her, and it was not mere beauty or sensuality. But he resisted that appeal, choosing instead to challenge her. “You refuse to believe I can see a ghost, but you expect me to believe you see a glow? When the ghost and the glow say the same thing?”

She smiled wanly. “I suppose it is inconsistent. But so many men have come with stories about the ghost of my husband, I know it’s a crude male game. I would like to believe you are different.”

Somehow Norton felt rather small. “I did see the ghost—but I don’t necessarily agree with what he said.”

“I do see the glow,” she said. “But I don’t—” She smiled. “Good night, Norton.”

“Good night, Orlene.”

She retreated and closed the door.

Gawain reappeared. “I see the problem,” he said. “Neither of you is a dragon slayer; you don’t like to go at it directly. But if she says you glow, she’ll accept you. It’s just a matter of time. All you need to do is stay here and—”

“And be supported by a woman,” Norton finished. “I find that hard to accept.”

“It’s my estate, damn it!” Gawain swore. “She doesn’t have a thing of her own. It’s all mine. She won’t inherit; only the son she bears will. She knows that.”

“Suppose it’s a daughter?”

The ghost looked blank. “A what?”

Norton was beginning to appreciate the fact that Gawain’s purpose did not align perfectly with Orlene’s purpose. He wanted to preserve the estate; she wanted a proper personal situation. He wanted a son to inherit and carry on the line; the personality of that son was not a concern. She surely wanted a fine child who would be a joy to her and to Gawain’s family and to the world and a credit to the estate. He was concerned about money and power, she about quality and love. She would prefer to have an attractive, intelligent, and sweet girl—like herself—while he would be outraged by anything less than a strapping, bold boy—like himself. Norton’s sympathy was sliding toward the woman’s view.

But he was here at the ghost’s behest, and there was merit in Gawain’s position. “I’ll try to accomplish your purpose. But I won’t rush it. It’s not that I want to sponge off your estate, it’s that I think you have a better wife than you appreciate, and I want it to be right.”

“I want it to be right, too,” Gawain said, sounding aggrieved. “I want my son to have the best of everything.”

Norton didn’t comment. As he came to understand the forces operating here, he did not feel more at ease. But there seemed to be no better way through this than to remain here, get to know Orlene, and do what the ghost wanted when the occasion was propitious. Then move on quickly, lest he become too much attached. How much easier this would have been if the girl had been a gold digger or a slut!

He closed his eyes, and Gawain did not speak again. Soon Norton was asleep, drowned in the comfort of the mudbath bed.

He dreamed he was back at the puzzle-window, trying to place a piece. As he stared at it, assessing its contours, those contours changed, coming to resemble the outline
of a nude woman—and the woman had hair like honey, and breasts the same. He tried to avert his eyes from that ineffable sweetness, embarrassed. It was not that he had any aversion to such a body; it was that he felt he was violating Orlene’s modesty.

But the shape expanded to life size, showing more detail, becoming the living, breathing woman, naked and appallingly desirable. He tried to set her down—for his hand was still on the piece, grasping it where he had no right to grasp—but found himself drawn in toward her. In a moment he would fall through the piece, into the world of the puzzle—and where would he be then? Desperately he pushed her away—and she fell to the floor and broke into a thousand puzzle fragments, and he knew these could never be reassembled, no matter how hard he tried to fit every bit together.

He woke—and Orlene was there, her arm about his shoulders as she sat on the bed. Her warm breast pressed against his upper arm, soft through the material of her apparel and his. “Wake, wake, Norton, it’s all right!” she soothed.

If she had a baby and it screamed in the night, even so would she comfort it—and what baby could be better off?

“I’m awake,” he said. “You don’t need to—you shouldn’t be here.”

“I couldn’t let you suffer,” she said. “Was it the ghost again?”

“No, not this time. Just a bad dream. I’m afraid I’m not very good company.”

“You were glowing so brightly!”

He coughed. “That’s a false glow! I dreamed of you—that I destroyed you, without meaning to.”

“No, the glow isn’t wrong,” she insisted. “I know you are right for me. In fact, if I weren’t already married—” She broke off, out of sorts. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that!”

“I think I shouldn’t stay here any longer,” Norton said. “You are so nice—I would never want to be the instrument of—of any problem for you.”

“You won’t be,” she said confidently. “I know.”

She believed in her glow. But his dream had been compelling. In past times supposedly sensible men had disparaged dreams as mere visions of internal events, but recent research had verified their magical properties. He could not be sure this dream was prophetic, but he didn’t want to take the chance. “All the same, I think it would be better if I left.”

“Oh, please, Norton, don’t do that!” she exclaimed. “It’s so difficult to be alone all the time! You’re the first who’s right. I’ll do anything you want—”

“Orlene, I’m not trying to coerce you! I’m trying to protect you. From me, maybe. And I think I can do that best by leaving you.”

“It’s morning,” she said abruptly. “I’ll fix us breakfast.”

“Thank you. Then I’ll go.”

She disengaged, stood, and hurried out. Norton got up, used the various facilities of the bathroom—and discovered that his clothes were gone. Orlene had evidently taken them for cleaning. The perfect housewife! “What do I do now?” he asked himself rhetorically.

“You use my clothing,” Gawain replied. “It will fit you well enough. I had more muscle, but our frames are similar.”

Norton realized he had no choice. Assisted by the ghost, he donned trousers, shirt, slippers, and an elegant robe. All of the clothing was of fine material and well made, and little golden dragons were embroidered on each item. “You
are
rich, aren’t you!” he muttered.

“Definitely,” Gawain agreed. “I’m not in the Five Hundred, but I was a candidate. If I had lived long enough—” The ghost broke off, looking momentarily pensive. “My son will never lack for material things. He’ll be able to buy himself a Senatorial seat, if he wants to. I understand politics is more lucrative than dragon slaying.”

“Good for your child,” Norton said shortly. “I’m not sure I’m going to sire it.”

“Orlene won’t let you go,” the ghost warned. “She knows you’re the one.”

“How can she stop me from leaving?”

Gawain pursed his lips. “You’ve got something to learn about the wiles of women!”

Norton brushed on out to rejoin Orlene, in no fit temper.

She had breakfast ready: bright green pancakes fresh from the Venusian fungus farm, and what appeared to be genuine beehive honey. That figured. He had to smile, and his mood abated. He joined her at the cozy dinette table.

Suddenly it seemed very domestic. He had never been the domestic type, but it was nice enough now. Orlene was very fetching in a green housecoat, her hair tied back with a scarlet ribbon. Green coat, honey hair, matching the pancakes and honey; did she do that unconsciously? But the ribbon—

Scarlet? “You know, there’s an old song about scarlet ribbons—”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’ll play it for you after breakfast.”

“You have it on tape?”

She smiled obscurely. “No.”

After breakfast she showed him to another room. There was a baby grand piano there. She sat down before it and played beautifully.

“How did you come by talent like that?” he asked, impressed, as she finished the piece.

“It’s not talent. I’ve been practicing since I was six years old, and more since I’ve been married. It helps to wile away the time; I don’t feel so much alone when I’m playing. Anyway, musical skill is the fashion for debutantes.”