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Authors: James P. Blaylock
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There were two paintings on the wall, both of rugged seacoasts. He set the candle on the bureau and opened the top drawer, moving things aside gingerly. Alejandro was obsessively neat, and he would notice immediately if his things had been disturbed.
He reached into his coat pocket and removed the cowry shell, which he still carried in the glove. He pushed the fabric of the glove away from the shell, being careful not to touch it, and he watched it intently for the telltale glow. The shell sat inertly on the folds of white cloth. One by one he opened the drawers in the bureau and shut them again. There was no hint of illumination in the seashell. He moved on to the chests on the floor, opening the first of them and looking into the interior. The contents were hidden by a blanket, which he lifted to reveal what lay beneath. There were photographs, books, what might be clothing, all of it arranged in such a way as to suggest that it had lain undisturbed for a long time. The contents apparently had no effect at all on the cowry, and he wondered abruptly if Father Santos was absolutely certain that the shell would respond, whether he had intended for Colin to depend on it utterly, or whether it would come down simply to ransacking the room. He opened the second chest, discovered nothing, and closed both of them up again. After a last quick glance around the room, he picked up the candle and went through a second door into the library.
It had been in the library that Alejandro had entertained them months ago. Somehow Alejandro had struck Colin as dashing and interesting then. He had seemed to have no knowledge of the books in his own library, something that he had been obscurely proud of, and in the course of the evening he had tossed a book now and then into the fire, suggesting that the books burned more brightly than oak logs, laughing when both Jeanette and May had protested. Colin had pretended to find his cavalier attitude amusing, something that he recalled now with a sense of shame.
The drawers in the library desk were nearly empty. He didn’t need the cowry to see that there was no crystal hidden inside. The books on the library shelves also apparently hid nothing. He heard the clock chime again: three o’clock now, and suddenly the time seemed short. He hastened around the room, the house seeming suddenly vast to him. And there was no reason at all to believe that Alejandro hadn’t taken the crystal with him. This entire search was quite possibly entirely futile, in which case risk was senseless, worse than senseless.
He went out into the hall again, found a third room, and entered, carrying the candle. It was a parlor, but it had a closed-up feel to it, and aside from some stiff-looking chairs and simple wooden tables, there was little furniture in it—nowhere, certainly, to hide anything. He wandered around the room anyway, filled with a growing futility, looking impatiently into two narrow drawers in a tobacco table. Why he had ever thought that Alejandro would leave the crystal unattended, he couldn’t any longer recall, and he hurried back into the library, rejecting the idea of going through the rest of the house. All of this looked to him now like monumental foolishness, senseless risk. Surely the crystal wouldn’t be in the kitchen, say, or in any other room used by the rest of the household. It might easily be buried in the garden, or in Alejandro’s saddlebags in the barn, or at the bottom of a jar of molasses. It might be on the moon, for all the good it would do him.
But then, just as he made up his mind to get out, he saw that the cowry was glowing. At first glance he took the glow to be candlelight, but clearly it wasn’t. The shell itself appeared to be restored—not the weathered and streaked object that he had seen in the mission courtyard and had been carrying from room to room, but the pristine shell that Father Santos had first shown him in the cellar. The glow came from within the shell,
He reached into his coat pocket and removed the cowry shell, which he still carried in the glove. He pushed the fabric of the glove away from the shell, being careful not to touch it, and he watched it intently for the telltale glow. The shell sat inertly on the folds of white cloth. One by one he opened the drawers in the bureau and shut them again. There was no hint of illumination in the seashell. He moved on to the chests on the floor, opening the first of them and looking into the interior. The contents were hidden by a blanket, which he lifted to reveal what lay beneath. There were photographs, books, what might be clothing, all of it arranged in such a way as to suggest that it had lain undisturbed for a long time. The contents apparently had no effect at all on the cowry, and he wondered abruptly if Father Santos was absolutely certain that the shell would respond, whether he had intended for Colin to depend on it utterly, or whether it would come down simply to ransacking the room. He opened the second chest, discovered nothing, and closed both of them up again. After a last quick glance around the room, he picked up the candle and went through a second door into the library.
It had been in the library that Alejandro had entertained them months ago. Somehow Alejandro had struck Colin as dashing and interesting then. He had seemed to have no knowledge of the books in his own library, something that he had been obscurely proud of, and in the course of the evening he had tossed a book now and then into the fire, suggesting that the books burned more brightly than oak logs, laughing when both Jeanette and May had protested. Colin had pretended to find his cavalier attitude amusing, something that he recalled now with a sense of shame.
The drawers in the library desk were nearly empty. He didn’t need the cowry to see that there was no crystal hidden inside. The books on the library shelves also apparently hid nothing. He heard the clock chime again: three o’clock now, and suddenly the time seemed short. He hastened around the room, the house seeming suddenly vast to him. And there was no reason at all to believe that Alejandro hadn’t taken the crystal with him. This entire search was quite possibly entirely futile, in which case risk was senseless, worse than senseless.
He went out into the hall again, found a third room, and entered, carrying the candle. It was a parlor, but it had a closed-up feel to it, and aside from some stiff-looking chairs and simple wooden tables, there was little furniture in it—nowhere, certainly, to hide anything. He wandered around the room anyway, filled with a growing futility, looking impatiently into two narrow drawers in a tobacco table. Why he had ever thought that Alejandro would leave the crystal unattended, he couldn’t any longer recall, and he hurried back into the library, rejecting the idea of going through the rest of the house. All of this looked to him now like monumental foolishness, senseless risk. Surely the crystal wouldn’t be in the kitchen, say, or in any other room used by the rest of the household. It might easily be buried in the garden, or in Alejandro’s saddlebags in the barn, or at the bottom of a jar of molasses. It might be on the moon, for all the good it would do him.
But then, just as he made up his mind to get out, he saw that the cowry was glowing. At first glance he took the glow to be candlelight, but clearly it wasn’t. The shell itself appeared to be restored—not the weathered and streaked object that he had seen in the mission courtyard and had been carrying from room to room, but the pristine shell that Father Santos had first shown him in the cellar. The glow came from within the shell,
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