Shades of Grey

Slugs, Jam and Tickets

When I got home, there was a note from Violet reminding me that we had arranged to meet at lamplighting that evening for a romantic walk, and that I was to brush my teeth and put some moisturizer on my lips. She had also sent round some jam. Some loganberry. It was a small pot, such as you might find at a jam-tasting session organized by the sector jam-in-chief. I smiled to myself but Violet’s kindness notwithstanding, I cleared out the broom cupboard so that I would have a safe retreat if she came calling unexpectedly. I even practiced a form of “Violet escape drill” in which I could be noiselessly inside the cupboard from anywhere within the house in under five seconds. I had just completed a front-door-to broom-cupboard dash in under four seconds, and had emerged from the cupboard much pleased with myself, when a voice made me jump.

“By all that’s navy, young man, what are you doing?”

It was Mrs. Lapis Lazuli, and she must have walked in the back door unannounced.

“I was—um—rehearsing for hide-and-seek.”

“Hmm,” she replied in her odd, imperious way that I knew was hiding someone deeply devoted to story and librarying, “not some sort of ‘hiding from Violet’ procedure?”

“Maybe that as well.”

A smile cracked upon her austere features.

“I don’t blame you. A frightful child is Violet—quite horribly spoiled. I hear you’re going to High Saffron?”

I told her this was so, and she reiterated her belief that there was a library hidden within the overgrown oak and rhododendron forest, and that she wanted me to keep an eye out for it.

“I’m humbled by your optimism,” I told her. “No one else thinks I have even the slightest chance of coming back.”

“Ah,” she said, faintly embarrassed, “I had—um—made provision for that eventuality. Might I explain?”

I sighed. “Go on, then.”

“This box contains two homing slugs,” she said, passing me a beautifully crafted wooden container no bigger than a goose egg, “each in its own compartment. The first is marked ‘Hoorah, yes, there’s a library,’ and the second, ‘No, worse luck, there isn’t.’ I’ve logged the Taxa number on each. All you have to do is release the appropriate slug when you get to High Saffron. Do you want me to run over the details again?”

“I think I’ve got it. You know that High Saffron is over forty miles away?”

She smiled.

“I won’t live to see the return of the slug,” she said, “but the next generation of librarians shall. Time is something we definitely have on our side. Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

I thought for a moment.

“I’d like to hear the end of Renfrew of the Mounties this evening—about whether he catches the train robber or not.”

She smiled. “I’ve no idea who commits that indefensible abuse of the centralized heating system, but I’m sure they can be persuaded.”

“I’m very grateful,” I told her. “Would you excuse me?”

I had just seen the Apocryphal man enter the front door. I found him in the living room, staring absently at one of the Vettrianos.

“Really?” he said when I told him I had some loganberry. “Show me.”

His face fell at the meagerness of my offering, but a promise was a promise, and we sat down on the sofa.

“You told me yesterday you could remember a time before Model Ts—when the Ford flathead was the vehicle of choice.”

“Yes?”

“I had a look in the Leapback Book. Flatheads were disposed of at the Third Great Leap Backward—one hundred and ninety-six years ago.”

“So your question is—?”

“How old are you?”

He thought for a moment and then counted on his fingers “I’ll be four hundred and fifty-two years this August. A card might be nice, but don’t worry about a present. Unless it’s jam, of course.”

“How can you live so long?”

“By not dying. See this?”

He pulled up his shirt to reveal where NS -B4 was scarred into the place his postcode should have been.

“It stands for ‘Negligible Senescence—Baxter #4.’ That’s my name—Mr. Baxter. Now, if you had to devise a historian, what would be your design parameters?”

I had to think about this.

“Intellect, for analysis.”

“You’re very kind. What else?”

“An excellent memory.”

“Flatterer. Anything more?”

“Longevity?”

He smiled. “Precisely. Unlike you, I don’t have any of that tiresome obsolescence that is both the bane and boon of mankind.”

I stared at him for a moment without speaking.

“You must have seen a lot.”

He shook his head. “Not a lot— everything. You recall I told you I was once a historian? I was lying; I still am. But Baxters don’t teach; Baxters observe. They note, they file, they compile reports.”

“For whom do you do this?”

“Head Office.”

“But since no one studies history anymore,” I pointed out, “what’s the point of recording it?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he said slowly. “I don’t exist to record your history; you exist to give me something to record.”

It was an interesting concept, although quite clearly loopy. One might just as easily suppose that we are here only to give function to houses, or to give a market to Ovaltine and string.

“So let me get this straight,” I murmured. “We are here only to give you something to study?”

“In one. I’m amazed you’ve taken so easily to the concept. Those that can be troubled to muse upon the meaning of life are generally disappointed when they figure it out.”

“In that case,” I said, thinking quickly, “what is the meaning of your life?”

He laughed. “Why, to study all of you, of course. It’s the perfect symbiosis. Once my studies are complete, I will be recalled to the faculty at Emerald City to present my findings.”

“And when will that be?”

“When the study is complete.”

“And how will you know when that is?”

“Because I will be recalled to Emerald City.”

“That’s insane.”

“If you look around, you won’t find much that isn’t.”

I had to agree with this, but the Apocryphal man, perhaps unused to having a chance to explain himself, carried on.

“There were initially ten Baxters, but despair took all but one. The weakest willed was always going to be the last Baxter standing. Sadly, it was me—I will have to shoulder the responsibility on my own.”

“What responsibility?”

“Without me, no one’s life has any meaning.”

“I thought Munsell said that color was here to give our lives meaning?”

“Its function is to give life apparent meaning. It is an abstraction, a misdirection—nothing more than a sideshow at Jollity Fair. As long as your minds are full of Chromatic betterment, there can be no room for other, more destructive thoughts. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” I said, confused by Mr. Baxter’s odd view of the world. “What was the Something That Happened?”

“I was born after the Epiphany. I don’t know what happened. But if you want to find out, then you should return to Rusty Hill and finish the work Zane and Ochre started.”

“The painting of the ceiling?”

“Everything is there in the ceiling,” he said. “All it needs is a key.”

I recalled the strong feeling of anticipation I had felt at the appearance of the Pooka. As with the Perpetulite’s hidden panel and the harmonics running Everspins, there was far, far more to the world than I supposed, and quite possibly a lot more to us.

“But—” I was interrupted by three loud raps at the door. Aware that I should not even be acknowledging Mr.

Baxter let alone talking to him, I went to the door to see the caller away.

It was Courtland Gamboge. He was on his own, and his manner seemed . . . businesslike.

“Twenty-two minutes.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Twenty-two minutes,” he repeated, “until the train departs. You surrendered your Open Return to deMauve, and I’ve a spare. This time tomorrow you can be back in the arms of your sweetheart. No trip to High Saffron, no chair census, no getting married to Violet, nothing. It’s life as it was before you came out here to the Fringes.”

“I’m still down eight hundred merits.”

“You’ll have to sort that out for yourself.”

“And the catch?”

“No catch,” he said with a forced smile. “We give you a ticket, and you get on the train. You don’t owe us anything, and we don’t owe you anything. Clean slate. It’s like you were never here.”

“I need to tell my father.”

“You can leave a note. He’ll understand. Twenty-one minutes. If you’re going, you have to go now.”

They had timed it well, and the decision was an easy one to make. I took the proffered ticket.

“Good lad,” he said, “I’ll see you to the railway station.”