The Sorcerer's House (4 page)

In that I was wholly wrong. The middle-aged man who had knocked smiled broadly, introduced himself, and shook my hand when I responded.

"I was getting worried about you," he said. "At first I thought you'd
gone to bed, because the house is so dark. Then I saw your fire through the window, and for a minute I thought the house might be on fire. Power failure?"

"No power yet, I'm afraid. The company's supposed to hook it up, but they haven't done it. I'm camping in the house for the present. No power and hardly any furniture." (That last was a lie, George. It slipped out of itself, and I sincerely regret it. The truth was, and is, that I have no furniture at all.)

"I see! I see! Say, neighbor, do you know about oil lamps?"

No doubt I smiled. "Only in old books, I'm afraid. Have you got one?"

"Sure do, and I'll lend it to you. Gives a hell of a lot more light than that candle. Just give me a minute."

He hurried off to his truck, which was parked in my driveway, and returned a few seconds later with a tall lamp and a bottle of what proved to be lamp oil. Inside, he showed me how to fill the reservoir and manage the wick. "This right here will give you as much light as a good reading light, and it'll burn just about any kind of vegetable oil. Believe that? I'll burn olive oil. Burn lard, too, or kerosene."

He lit it from my candle and blew the candle out. As he had promised, its clear, bright light was amazing.

"Now what I came about was fish. I been fishing up to Brompton Lake and caught a lot, so I've been giving some to the neighbors. Like a couple? They'll be good eating."

"I certainly would. And thank you."

"How 'bout three? Give you three easy as two."

I admired his fish, listened with proper appreciation to a (thankfully) brief synopsis of his adventures that day, graciously accepted three fish of medium size, thanked him, and promised faithfully to return his lamp as soon as my electricity was on.

His fish--when I had leisure to examine them--proved to be a catfish, and two others that may perhaps have been bass. My lengthy sojourn at the Riverman had left me with a small frying pan, salt, and pepper. I filleted one of the bass in record time and cooked it over the fire.

I was desperately hungry by then, George. I know my plight will not move you, but I was. I do not know when I have eaten anything better than that fish.

The second bass was filleted, cooked, and eaten only slightly more slowly.

Had the catfish retained a spark of life, I think I might have carried it down to the river and released it. It did not, and I knew that it would spoil unless I cooked it at once. My faithful paring knife opened it as it had the others, and I gutted it, as I had the others, on a sheet of newspaper.

A gleam caught my eye. I shall always remember that moment.

It was--and is--a ring. I extracted it and washed it at the old sink in the kitchen. The setting is simple in the extreme, though somewhat massive: a ring of gold rising to grasp a gem that winks and glows in the lamplight like nothing I have ever seen, now a reddish green and soon a greenish red, both touched with yellow and black.

I ate my catfish slowly, enjoying it but full of fish already, and more full of thoughts. Finished it, cleaned up, and began this letter.

Something has changed, George. I feel it, although I cannot put my finger on it. My luck? That is what I would like to think. If I had funds, I would lay a bet.

But I have been down that road before. No doubt I would go down it again, though the very thought sickens me.

I have been given three fish. Three fish, I feel, ought to signify something; but I have no idea what. I have been given--no, loaned--a lamp. Rubbing the lamp (yes, I tried it) avails nothing. And yet . . .

I found a ring in a fish's belly, like a boy in a fairy tale.

Suppose that all this had happened when we were boys, George. What fun we would have had! Now I am only a man, alone in a dark house and a little frightened.

Yours sincerely,

Bax

Dear George:

My first thought upon awakening was to take the ring to the pawnshop on Broad Street--the place that has my laptop. I recalled the very low price I had been offered for the apparatus the boy had left behind, however, and thought better of it. A little farther along there are several jewelers. I took it to the nearest.

He looked at it and shook his head, looked at the stone through his loupe and shook his head again. "Just costume jewelry, sir. I don't want it, and I doubt that anybody does. A glass jewel and what looks to me like a brass mounting. It's old, but it never was valuable and never will be."

And in all honesty, George, it looked very ordinary and cheap indeed as long as it was in his hands. When he laid it on his counter, the
jewel began to glow again. I slipped it back on, and when I saw it in the sunlight I seemed to have a fortune on my finger.

"To you, Bax." Isn't that what you will say? "Just to you."

Well, no doubt you are right.

Home again and wishing for breakfast, I found mail. The return address (I have it here) reads Country Hill Real Estate. I confess it took me a moment to place the name. Let me transcribe the entire letter:

Dear Mr. Dunn,

May I ask a favor?

Our management here has instituted a new policy. Once per week we must lunch with a prospective client. (And write a one-page report when we return to the office.) I need a
prospective
client for this week and thought of you. You don't have to buy or sell anything, you understand. How are you making out with your new house? Tell me that, and we're (I'm) in.

Lunch will be on me. I'll put it on my expense account, and Mr. Hardaway will see it there and pat my pretty little head.

Anywhere you want to go. Order whatever you want.

BUT let me know right away so I can relax. Just phone and ask for Doris.

Hopefully,

Doris Griffin

I have no telephone as yet, and could not afford a pay phone--assuming I could find one. Neither stopped me for a moment. I walked to Mrs. Naber's, returned her mower, thanked her, and asked to use her telephone.

Doris would certainly expect me to have a car, but there was nothing I could do about that short of stealing one. I explained that my license had expired--I did not say why--and asked her to pick me up. She agreed readily.

To say that I became thoughtful would be an egregious understatement. I took the apparatus out of the closet and examined it more
carefully than ever. The three rings were still aligned to fish, as I had left them, although the pointer had wandered away.

And here, George, I made a discovery, one I ought to have anticipated. You will laugh, but it shocked me at the time. When the rings were aligned to fish, several other things fell into line as well.

You may call it superstition, but I laid the apparatus flat and returned the pointer to the three fish.

Doris's little sedan purred into my driveway not long after that. I had feared that she would want to look at the house, but she blew the horn and I hurried to join her.

She shook my hand. "Good to see you again, Mr. Dunn! Thanks ever so much for helping me out."

I insisted that the pleasure was all mine.

"Do you like the house? I take it you're going to live there?"

I said that I liked it a great deal--only a slight exaggeration--and that I was certainly going to live there for a while.

"What about your wife?" Doris was backing out of my driveway. "What does she think?"

I explained that I was unmarried and asked where we were going.

"Anyplace you want." She smiled warmly. "Do you know the restaurants in this area?"

"Not at all," I said. "I haven't been here long, and I live very simply for the most part."

"What would you like? What about steak? Men always want steak."

I find it difficult to decide what I want for lunch when I have missed breakfast, George. Everything sounds good.

"Mexican? Chinese? There's no decent sushi to be had here, I'm sorry to say. We've a good German place, though, and I like the Lakeshore Inn . . ."

I fear I licked my lips. "Does it have good seafood?"

"Absolutely! Super-duper seafood." Doris pressed the accelerator. "It's out in the country and will give us a beautiful drive and a chance to talk. So the Lakeshore Inn it is. You'll love it!"

I did. The building is old and rambling, and must have been built
as a summer resort; the restaurant simple, old-fashioned, and unpretentious.

"You'll think I'm mad," I told Doris, "but I had fish for supper last night, and now I find I crave fish again. Are you sure you like it?"

"I love it." She gave me a sly grin. "Besides, this is outside town and that gives us a wonderful excuse for a long lunch. I'll make up all sort of real-estatey things for us to have talked about. Would you like an appetizer?"

I had been looking at them, and I said so.

"There's a shrimp pizza. What about clams cardinal?"

"What would you like?" I asked.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I usually order the fish chowder. The chowder here is superb."

I signed a waitress and said, "We'd both like the fish chowder."

Doris added, "With a long spoon for me, please." The waitress eyed her strangely, George, as may be imagined.

"What was that about?" I asked when the waitress had gone. "I know, 'Who sups with the devil need have a long spoon.' But am I that bad?"

She smiled. "It's just a joke. Have you spent much time in the house, Mr. Dunn?"

"Quite a bit. I'm living there."

"Really?"

"Yes, certainly. Why should I pay rent at a hotel when I own a house? If you think I'm wealthy, I'm sorry for having deceived you. I'm not."

Doris looked around as if she feared someone might be listening. "When we talked in the office, I was sure you weren't. Today--well, I've been looking at your ring."

"I'm not. Your initial impression was quite correct. No church has mice poorer than I."

"I understand." She nodded. "That's a cat's-eye opal, isn't it? I've heard of them."

"If you say so." I held out my hand. "Do you mind if I don't remove it? It's hard to get off."

George, the truth is that I was terrified she would see it for what it actually is: an imitation stone in a brass mounting.

"Besides," she took my hand, "I've got to hold your hand this way."

"There is that."

"Have you seen many ghosts?"

"If I had known you wanted me to see them, I would have made every effort."

She released my hand. "The Black House is supposed to be the most haunted house in this part of the state. You know: Moans. Rattling chains. Unearthly noises. Ghostly lights flickering in the windows."

"Oh. Those."

"Yes. Your everynight supernatural manifestations. The kids call it the Devil's House. . . ."

"Ah! The long spoon."

"Exactly. Since you own it."

"I don't have a tail."

She giggled and covered her mouth. "Prove it!"

"Or horns." I pointed to my head.

"I'll acknowledge that you have no horns if you can tell me about one tiny little ghost you saw."

"Well, there was a boy. Do boys count?"

"They might. Go on."

"The house has three doors," I explained. "Front, back, and side. Someone had broken in through the side door, so I've nailed it shut."

"The pot thickens."

"That's 'plot.' "

"You say it your way and I'll say it my way."

Our chowder arrived; it was indeed thick, I suppose with roux.

"I only got a glimpse, you understand. But he seemed a perfectly ordinary boy." Honesty made me add, "Although he was oddly dressed."