Ecce and Old Earth

Lydia shook her head. 'No one has ever told us.”

Myron, after a single glance, put his finger on Patagonia.

'Correct!' said Wayness. She turned pages in the atlas. 'All these countries are different, and everyplace has its own special flavor. It is great fun traveling here and there, going from one old city to another, or exploring beautiful wild places, and even on Old Earth the wild places still exist.”

Lydia looked dubiously down at the maps. “What you say must be true, but these maps are confusing, and they give me a funny feeling. I’m not sure whether I like it or not.' Wayness laughed. 'I know that feeling very well. It is called 'wanderlust’. When I was your age, someone gave me a book of poems from the early times. One of these poems affected me strongly, and haunted me for days, so that I avoided the book. Do you want to hear the poem? It is quite short and it goes like this:

“ ‘On we rode, the others and I,

Over the mountains blue and by

The Silver River the Sounding Sea.

And the robber woods of Tartary.’ “

''That is pretty,' said Lydia. She looked at Myron, who had cocked his head to the side. 'Myron thinks it is very nice. He likes the way the words sound together. Do you know any others?'

“Let me think. I don’t have a good memory for poems, but here is one called the Lake of the Dismal Swamp.” It is sad and eerie.

“ ‘They mode the grave too cold and damp

for a soul so brave and true.

So she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp

Where all night long by a firefly lamp

She paddles her birch canoe.’ ”

After a moment Lydia said: “That poem is also very nice.'

Lydia looked toward Myron, then turned to Wayness and with a marveling expression on her face. “Myron has decided to write to you!'

Siting up straight Myron took pencil and paper. Using neat quick strokes ne printed a message. “The poem is beautiful, and the words are beautiful. Say it again.”

Wayness smilingly shook her head. “It would not sound so well the second time.'

Myron gave her so mournful a look that Wayness relented. “Very well. I'll do it just this once.” She repeated the poem.

Myron listened attentively, then wrote: “I like that poem. The words fit together well. I shall write a poem when I have time.'

“I hope you will show it to me,” said Wayness. ''Or even read it aloud.”

Myron pursed his lips, not yet ready to go so far.

Lydia asked: “Do you know any other poems?'

Wayness reflected. “There is a poem I learned when I was very young and a fine poem is too. I think that you will like it.” She looked from face to face; both were alert and expectant. 'It goes like this:

'Pussycat Mew jumped over a coal

And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.

Poor Pussycat's weeping, she’ll have no more milk

Until her best petticoat's mended with silk.’ “

Lydia was pleased with the poem. “Though, of course, it is very sad.”

“Possibly,” said Wayness. “But I suspect that the pussycat went quickly to work and mended her skirt, so that she was once again served her milk. That is what I would have done, at any rate.”

“And I, as well. Do you know any more poems?'

“Not at the moment. Perhaps you should try to write a poem and Myron also.'

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “I will write a poem about the wind.'

“That is a good idea. Myron, what about you?”

Myron wrote: “I must decide what to write about. The poem will sound like the ‘Lake of the Dismal Swamp,’ because that seems a good way to write poems.”

“Both of your ideas sound interesting,” said Wayness. She turned her head to listen. Clara had once again gone out to the utility porch. Wayness looked around the sitting room. There was no desk or cabinet in which Irena would have kept private papers.

Lydia asked again: “What are you looking for?”

“A paper with the address of a man named ‘Adrian Moncurio’. Either that, or a paper with the address of 'Professor Solomon’ who is the same man.”

Clara came back into the kitchen. She looked through the doorway, making a swift appraisal of what might be occurring. She turned away. Neither Myron nor Lydia had anything to say.

Myron snatched up his pencil and wrote. “There is not a paper like that in the house.'

Wayness leaned back and stared toward the ceiling.

The day passed. Outside the rain fell steadily: large heavy drops which did little more than bring out the scent of damp concrete and damp soil. Irena came home and Wayness took her leave. In a dispirited mood she walked through the rain to the hotel.

On the following day the overcast exerted a dank pressure upon the landscape. Wayness arrived at Casa Lucasta to find that Irena had not gone to work. She gave no explanation, but evidently did not feel well and, after a muttered colloquy with Clara, went up to her room. Half an hour later Clara draped a black shawl over her head, donned her overcoat, took up her shopping bag and trudged from the house.

A light rain was now falling, constraining Wayness and the two children to the sitting room.

Clara was gone. Wayness listened, but there was no sound from upstairs. She spoke in a low voice: 'I will tell you something about myself. I have kept it secret from everyone. Since I want your help, I will tell you this secret.”

“I was born on a world which is very wild. No one lives there except many different kinds of animals and a few people who guard the world. But there are other people who want to kill most of the animals, and build big cities and destroy the beauty of this world.'

Myron wrote: “They are fools. “

“I think so too,” said Wayness. 'In fact, some of them are wicked people, and have even tried to kill me.'

Lydia looked at Wayness large-eyed. “Who could do such a terrible thing?”

“I don’t know. But I am trying my best to stop them, to save my beautiful world. There is a man who can help me. I think you know him. His name — 'Wayness stopped speaking. She raised her head and listened. What had she heard? Whatever the sound had been, it was not repeated. She lowered her voice still further. 'His name is Adrian Moncurio.” She spoke in a low voice, almost breathless with urgency. Again she tilted her head to listen. Then: 'Moncurio called himself Professor Solomon; perhaps you know him under this name. He came to Pombareales and got into trouble. He said he had found a treasure of gold doubloons in a secret cave. He was not telling the truth. The cave was fictitious, and the gold doubloons were mostly lead. He sold as many as he could, then when his trick was discovered, he fled from Earth, and now I must find him. Do either of you know where he is?”

The two had listened in an uneasy silence. Lydia said: “Myron knows, of course. Myron knows everything.''

Wayness looked at Myron and started to speak, but was Interrupted. Into the room came Irena, her hair in disorder, her skin the color of old mustard. She cried hoarsely: “What are you talking about? I can hear this sly murmuring and it is something I cannot tolerate! What is it then!”

Wayness stuttered and groped for words. Myron spoke in a clear easy voice: “I have composed a poem. Do you want to hear it?”

Irena stared, her jaw dropping to draw the lines of her haggard face even deeper. 'You are talking!'

“I will speak my poem.”

Irena started to speak in a peculiar strangled voice.

Lydia called out sharply: “Listen to Myron He has decided to speak!'

“This is the poem. It is called The World of the Nineteen Moons.'

Irena cried out: “Enough of this nonsense.” She stared at Wayness. 'Who are you? What do you want here?