“Since the paper might tear, I withhold it. What about the map itself? Is that printed? I’ve wondered about it.”
“No. Or at least I don’t think so. It was skillfully drawn by a right-handed person, probably a man, using a pen charged with permanent ink and a straightedge—or at least it looks that way. He was skilled and careful but not a cartographer. They normally put north at the top of their maps. That may or may not be the case here.”
Mrs. Fevre asked, “No misspellings?”
“I noticed none. Did you see any?”
She shook her head, a slow, sad, gentle motion. “No, but you had a better light, and no doubt a more active mind. Mine must be flogged like a donkey until it begins to function. That map was drawn to show the reader where, and how, to find something. What does the green rectangle mean? Could it be a grave? Or a building? Something of that kind?”
I nodded. “That was my first thought, too. A grave, or perhaps a temple. A chapel, a shrine, or something of the sort. Something magical or holy.”
My final remark brought a faint smile. “I take it you touched it.”
That baffled me. I said, “No, I don’t believe I did.”
“Could there be drugs in the ink?”
“Are you saying…?”
“I have touched it. Perhaps you should, too.”
When I did, paper and ink slipped into my fingertips and reality slid away. I stood among a dark throng of phantom figures: a half-starved girl whose lips could not quite conceal her teeth, a leering potbellied old man, a hairy dwarf who shook three spiked balls at the end of a staff, and many more. Shadowy figures I could not see clearly and cannot quite recall.
I jerked my hand away.
“There is very little religion these days, Mr. Smithe.”
Still breathless I managed, “Very little religiosity, certainly.”
“Perhaps you should put down my book.”
I returned it to her table. “We live in a time of peace and prosperity.” It sounded pedantic, but I pressed on. “At such times most of us feel small need to have recourse to…”
“You’ve thought of something. What is it?”
“Once when I was riding in a trailer we passed through a ruined town. A ragged child stood at the side of the road, watching us go by. Somewhere a bell tolled, just as we passed her; she turned and hurried away. I wondered about that afterward.”
“Was she going to worship?” The big, dark eyes were still unreadable; the pale face held no expression.
I nodded. “That’s what I concluded. With her mother, she would implore God to send them food and decent clothing. Wastepaper, sticks, or dried grass that might be burned in winter. I hope He complied.”
Mrs. Fevre’s voice softened. “You’re not permitted money, are you? That is my understanding.”
“Quite correct. No money and few personal possessions. I have this watch.” I showed it to her. “We surrender our clothing in the evening and receive pajamas or nightgowns. Presumably our pockets are emptied before our clothes are washed. What is found there is seldom returned.”
“It seems a miserable existence.”
“We are like books. We possess the contents of our minds. A few clover leaves, like my watch, pressed between our pages. Nothing more.”
“This book of mine”—Mrs. Fevre glanced at the book on her table—“possesses a map. Had you considered that?”
I smiled and shook my head. “No, I hadn’t. Thank you for calling it to my attention. Does it understand what it has?”
She stared at me.
“Is the map mentioned in the text? Are there clues in the text that might explain why the map is there? Or what that small green rectangle invokes?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I haven’t read it, and I never thought of that.”
“What drug is in the green ink? And where did you get the book?”
“It was my husband’s.” Mrs. Fevre sighed. “It’s been years. A decade—no, more than that, Mr. Smithe. Twelve years now, I suppose. Thirteen or more.”
“Do you know where he got it?”
“No.” Her empty gaze was up, at the ceiling. “I have no idea.”
“I don’t want to pry, Mrs. Fevre; but what was his name?”
“Ah, the bookplate. Naturally you’re curious. It’s not his. His name was Fevre—what did I say?”
Fevre! I had missed that one and felt like kicking myself. “Never mind. I didn’t intend to interrupt you.”
“Dr. Barry Fevre. You’ve met our daughter; she must not have told you her full name.”
“Correct, and I apologize for interrupting. Will you tell me a little more about your husband? It could be important.”
“If you wish. The old copy asked the same thing. No doubt you’ll have many of the same questions.”
Well, well, I thought. Aloud I said, “Not necessarily. Was this old one from the police? A private investigator? Someone of that kind?”
“The old reclone. The library here has two of you, Mr. Smithe; I assumed you knew. Two copies, but the other one’s an earlier edition. I checked him out six weeks ago and returned him, oh, eight or ten days ago. The library would never have permitted me to check you out today if I hadn’t.” Faintly, she smiled. “You look surprised.”
“I am. I should’ve guessed, of course; there were several…” I felt as though I were choking. “Well, never mind. I haven’t spoken to the old copy, Mrs. Fevre; so I may have to cover much the same ground he did. You were telling me about your husband. Barry Fevre was your husband? I believe you said so. He was Chandra’s father?”
Gently, Adah Fevre nodded. “Barry and I were married, Mr. Smithe, and I was faithful. That was the name he chose for her, by the way—Chandra. She hadn’t been born when he began using it.… I don’t know where he learned the name. Does it matter?”
“Is it possible that he got it from this book?”
Mrs. Fevre shrugged. “I suppose so. As I said, I haven’t read it. Or he may simply have been twitting me. My family originated in India, Mr. Smithe. We lived upon the island called Britain for four or five generations, then emigrated again. Where and why is rather a long story, and I’d prefer not to get into it.”
“Then we won’t. He had the book and you don’t know where he got it. When did you learn of it?”
“When I cleaned out our cabin and moved here. It was in one of his bags.” Mrs. Fevre paused. “Before we talk much longer you’ll want a full explanation. Let me give it now; that should save some time.”
My nod gave permission.
4
ADAH’S STORY
“Did you rebel against your parents, Mr. Smithe?” Adah Fevre’s gentle smile softened it. “I mean hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and long before you became an author.”
I smiled back. “I’m afraid so. One must, or remain a child for life. At least, that’s how it seems to me when I look back; so I disobeyed and disobeyed, and eventually left them. Now I’d give everything I have or ever will have…”