Wild Thyme and Violets and Other Unpublished Works, page 1
Wild Thyme and Violets
and
Other Unpublished Works
Copyright 2013 by Jack Vance
Cover art by Tais Teng
Published by
Spatterlight Press
ISBN 978-1-61947-064-4
2013-06-24
Visit jackvance.com for more
Spatterlight Press releases
Cat Island, 1946. The Genesee Slough Murders, 1966. The STARK, 1954. Wild Thyme and Violets, 1976. Clang, 1984. The Magnificent Red-Hot Jazzing Seven, 1976. The Kragen, 1963. Guyal of Sfere, 1969. The Telephone was Ringing in the Dark, 1962. Dream Castle, 1946.
This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong, and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.
Source: Harrison Watson, Jr., Digitize: Connie Brown, Richard Chandler, Joel Hedlund, Alun Hughes, David Mortimore, Joel Riedesel, John A. Schwab, Koen Vyverman, Suan Hsi Yong, Diff: Richard Chandler, Damien G. Jones, David A. Kennedy, Joel Riedesel, Steve Sherman, Hans van der Veeke, Suan Hsi Yong, Format: Derek W. Benson, Mike Berro, Evert Jan de Groot, Tech Proof: Ron Chernich, Rob Friefeld, Joel Riedesel, Fred Zoetemeyer, Text Integrity: Richard Chandler, Rob Friefeld, Alun Hughes, Paul Rhoads, Jeffrey Ruszczyk, Steve Sherman, Anton Sherwood, Tim Stretton, Suan Hsi Yong, Implement: Donna Adams, Derek W. Benson, Mike Dennison, Patrick Dusoulier, Joel Hedlund, Damien G. Jones, John McDonough, David Reitsema, Steve Sherman, Hans van der Veeke, Security: David A. Kennedy, Paul Rhoads, John A. Schwab, Tim Stretton, Compose: Joel Anderson, Andreas Irle, John A. Schwab, Comp Review: Mark Adams, Christian J. Corley, John A. D. Foley, Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Karl Kellar, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, RTF-Diff: Mark Bradford, Deborah Cohen, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Neil Anderson, Neville Angove, Kristine Anstrats, Erik Arendse, Mike Barrett, Karl Barrus, Michel Bazin, Scott Benenati, Malcolm Bowers, Mark Bradford, Ursula Brandt, Angus Campbell-Cann, Deborah Cohen, Matthew Colburn, Robert Collins, Christian J. Corley, Michael Duncan, Patrick Dusoulier, Andrew Edlin, Patrick van Efferen, Joost van der Eijk, Harry Erwin, Rob Friefeld, Marcel van Genderen, Yannick Gour, Tony Graham, Erec Grim, Evert Jan de Groot, Marc Herant, Ruth Hunter, Peter Ikin, Lucie Jones, Jurriaan Kalkman, Jason Kauffeld, Karl Kellar, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, Per Kjellberg, Rob Knight, Chris LaHatte, Gabriel Landon, Bob Luckin, Chris McCormick, Robert Melson, Michael Mitchell, Mike Myers, Eric Newsom, Till Noever, Michael Nolan, Jim Pattison, Matt Picone, Chris Prior, Michael Rathbun, Glenn Raye, Simon Read, David Reitsema, Errico Rescigno, Joel Riedesel, Axel Roschinski, Robin L. Rouch, Jeffrey Ruszczyk, Mike Schilling, Steve Sherman, Mark Shoulder, Steven Smith, Gabriel Stein, Mark J. Straka, Andrew Thompson, Willem Timmer, Hans van der Veeke, Dirk Jan Verlinde, Paul Wedderien, Suan Hsi Yong, Fred Zoetemeyer
Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden
THE COMPLETE WORKS
of
Jack Vance
Wild Thyme and Violets
and
Other Unpublished Works
THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION
Oakland
2012
Contents
Cat Island
The Genesee Slough Murders
The STARK
Wild Thyme and Violets
Clang
The Magnificent Red-hot Jazzing Seven
The Kragen
Guyal of Sfere
The Telephone was Ringing in the Dark
Dream Castle
Cat Island
1
One terrible night at sea a large ship foundered among the toppling waves. The sole survivors were a number of cats, thirty-two in all, who managed to clamber aboard a life-raft. Through lightning and thunder, wind and spume, they clung for dear life, while the typhoon drove the raft across the dark waters like a trifle of chaff whisked on the breeze. Drenched, cold, miserable, the cats secured themselves to the ropes and gratings arranged for that purpose.
When morning dawned the wind died and the sea calmed, but the horizon delineated only an inscrutable wet wilderness.
For three days the raft drifted, and many were the dangers and alarms, and many the expressions of discomfort and despair. The timid cats crouched miserably in the center of the raft, avoiding as best they might any glimpse of the sea and the salt spray which stiffened their fur. The most daring cats, despising the idea of risk, alert for thrills, paced about the edge of the raft, the better to spy land, or perhaps to catch a careless fish.
At dawn of the fourth day the raft drifted upon the beach of an island. With one accord the cats leapt ashore, where they quenched their thirst at a nearby spring and appeased their worst pangs of hunger on crabs and other crustaceans whom they found crossing the beach. Hereupon, a period of several hours was devoted to rest, the cleansing and ordering of fur.
With their most urgent needs satisfied, the cats held a council. Among the group were three elderly cats to whom the others gave deference and looked for leadership. Two of these, in the interests of harmony, effaced themselves and sat with tails modestly folded at the outskirts of the gathering. The third, a large Maltese named Peter, was elected temporary chairman. After a moment of deliberation he addressed the group.
“Comrades in adversity! Through the caprice of the elements we have been delivered upon this pleasant island. Indeed it is wild, undeveloped, and a far cry from the ease of our former homes. Still, compared to the rigors of the life-raft, or the dark wet depths, it is a veritable garden of Arcadia. Seemingly no connection with civilization exists, however, and who knows how long Destiny may impound us upon this forgotten cranny of the world?”
Faces were glum at this aspect to the situation. Only upon the life-raft had the comforts of the familiar hearth, the private saucer of milk, and the soft cushions of the basket seemed more dear. There were murmurs of discouragement, but also proposals were advanced as to how best to convey a message of distress to the appropriate authorities.
Sadly none of the concepts appeared effective in the ultimate view. Peter dismissed them in turn with a few caustic remarks.
“The suggested use of smoke-signals is not only nuncupatory, but also inept in that —” he made a sweeping gesture about the blank horizon “— what eye is there to see? Also, the plan to capture and train carrier pigeons is scarcely more feasible, even recognizing that the native genius of these estimable birds brings them unalterably back to the hands which trained them. The venture would terminate in an episode of birds being taken from the cote, hurled into the air, the same birds quickly wheeling and returning to the same cote, their messages unread.”
“Perhaps we could construct a radio transmitter and send SOS messages,” suggested a young black cat. “I see a perfectly splendid place for an antenna — from the tip of that cocoanut palm to the crag of rock there on the hillside. I could climb that tree in a jiffy, even carrying a coil of wire!”
“I know the Morse codes for SOS!” called out another cat in excitement. “Three dots, three dashes and three more dots. Or,” somewhat doubtfully, “is it the other way around?”
“In that case our message would read ‘OSO’,” said a white cat named Snowball. “It might well be construed to mean: ‘Stay away!’ or ‘Do not save us’.”
Peter’s long gray tail twitched. “In any case, inasmuch as none of us has thought to bring with him a small broadcasting unit, nor the supplies necessary for the construction even were one of us trained in electronic principles, we must abandon this illusory but otherwise exalted proposition. I become increasingly convinced that, discounting miracles, we must plan to remain where we now find ourselves for an indefinite period.”
In general the response to Peter’s conclusion was doleful twitching of the whiskers and even a few ears laid back in depression. “We must make the best of the situation,” declared Peter, “and indeed we will! We are American cats, heirs to glorious tradition! We have our health, our courage has been proved by the tempestuous days and nights on the deep! We find ourselves new pioneers and we will establish a settlement — nay, a community, a principality even! So shall we prosper!”
This rousing exhortation was greeted with acclamation and cat-calls, together with spirited lashing of tails. With renewed confidence the thirty-two cats faced the future.
2
At the prospect of indefinite residence upon the island the castaway cats gave the landscape a more thorough examination. “Our first thoughts must be toward a permanent place of habitation,” declared Peter.
“I see some hills,” called a pretty young Persian named Kitty, who had
“The suggestion, in certain of its aspects is sound,” said Peter, perhaps a trifle ponderously. “Still, under careful analysis it cannot stand the test of practicality.”
“Why not?” demanded Banjo, a yellow tortoise-shell, who, secretly enamored of Kitty, felt compelled to second her proposals.
“It must be remembered,” explained Peter, fixing upon the brash Banjo a lambent yellow stare, “that caves are wont to occur in a rocky terrain — basalt, trap, flint, limestone, and like formations. We must ever bear in mind the necessity of convenient sanitary facilities. The lee of that bluff —” and he indicated a knoll fronting a wide beach of soft white sand “— would, to my mind, prove a more satisfactory location.”
Much was said pro and con, with the lee of the bluff finally selected, and the cats set off to inspect the site of their new home, running and bounding across the sand, leaping over driftwood and seaweed in a brisk and carefree manner.
Beside the bluff they halted once more. A cat called Timothy spoke. “What will we name our new home?”
For a space the group was silent; then came a torrent of suggestions. Each had a proposal to put forward. Some were fanciful, even elaborate; others were terse. Some were sentimental; still others tended in an ideological direction, upon which controversy might be expected.
It was the sage Peter who once more resolved the situation. “What we require,” he said, “is a name at once sonorous, dignified, inspiring and expressive. Grace and vigor must go hand in hand. What could be more appropriate than —” he paused.
“Than what?” came the excited chorus.
“‘Cat Island’?” murmured Peter.
Approval was immediate, unanimous, and as the cats paced off the bounds of their new village, they insensibly began to think of themselves, not as castaways, but as settlers, homesteaders — in short, Cat Islanders.
Further episodes trace the history of Cat Island: the hinterlands are opened up to development. Vast mouse-ranches come into being; the mouse herds are guarded by a new breed of rough and ready young cats known as ‘muskits’ (in analogy with ‘cowboys’).
An airplane crashes on the beach; the cats learn that the USA is at war with a cruel enemy.
Shortly thereafter Cat Island is invaded by a contingent of the enemy. The cats acquit themselves notably.
The cats coordinate their efforts with the US Marines. The night before a landing by the marines the cats sneak into the enemy’s barracks and steal all the trousers.
In the morning the US Marines land, and the enemy is too embarrassed to leave their barracks and are easily captured. It is a gallant action for which the cats receive commendation.
The Genesee Slough Murders
Chapter I
On the afternoon of Saturday, June 15, Sheriff Joe Bain encountered several persons in the full vigor of life, who, to their horrified amazement, would shortly be killed by a mysterious enemy.
The day began in an ordinary fashion. Joe’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Miranda, scrambled eggs for his breakfast, while he drank a cup of coffee and read an editorial on the front page of the morning Clarion:
AN UNCOMFORTABLE DILEMMA,
AN ACCEPTABLE COMPROMISE
Often in life one set of praiseworthy endeavors collides head-on with another set. This predicament is currently our own. The tree-shaded waterways of San Rodrigo, Contra Costa, San Joaquin, Sacramento, and several other counties, are esthetic assets to our beautiful state. The fields and farms surrounded by these waterways are a source of wealth to those who till them, and by economic convection to the whole population. The line of division between land and water, namely the levees, have become a cause of bitter conflict. The levees must be strong and sound to prevail against the spring floods. On the levees grow lordly cottonwoods, poplars, oaks, willows, weeping willows; mulberry, fig and elderberry trees; wild rose and blackberry tangles, to create many miles of delightful vistas. Alas! the roots weaken the levee on which the trees grow.
The Army Engineers, to protect the waterways, are engaged in removing the trees and lining the banks with rip-rap. Conservationists, nature-lovers, yachtsmen, ecologists, a number of plain ordinary crack-pots, as many plain ordinary trouble-makers, intend to halt the work, and they mean Now. The Sierra Club, a responsible and far-sighted organization, has instituted legal action to halt the levee stripping.
Where does the Clarion stand on this difficult question?
We would hope for a compromise.
On islands and berms where the levees are not endangered, let the trees stand! But where the roots weaken the levee and imperil the economic well-being of our county — regretfully they must go.
Beauty is meaningless to farmers whose fields are flooded. They earn no more money; they pay no more taxes.
Which leads us to the basic thrust of this editorial.
San Rodrigo County has the fourth lowest tax rate of any county in California, and one of the lowest gross incomes. As a result our public buildings are ghastly Victorian jokes; our school system is barely adequate; our Sheriff’s Department is a languid and amateurish operation working by fits, starts, spasms and frantic improvisation.
We must accept a bitter reality. We need to pay higher taxes. Only then will we be able to attract able career officials who will bring San Rodrigo County into the Twentieth Century.
We need the tax money.
The trees endanger the fields which provide tax money.
Hence, with regret, the trees must go.
Today a number of people will gather along Genesee Slough to prevent any further stripping of the levees.
How shall we regard this demonstration? We hope that appropriate laws will be enforced.
Joe flings aside the paper in annoyance. “Howard Griselda has lost none of his zeal. He’s on my back again.”
Miranda tries to soothe him. The telephone rings; she goes off to answer. “Who’s that?” Joe asks.
“Oh, just someone.”
Joe goes down to his office. The night has been relatively calm; two cars stolen and a burglary.
The department is chronically short-handed; Joe has put a trusty, Dave Merrick, to work as relief despatcher, handling the radio during slack hours. Dave is twenty-one, a ham radio operator, whose crime was stealing his father-in-law’s airplane and cracking it up. Joe considers him impulsive and naive rather than criminal, and allows him considerable latitude. Besides he can use the help.
Joe goes out to look over the scene of the burglary. The victims are Victor and Jessie deGiorgio. While they attended a wedding their house was entered, and goods to the value of $1200 were stolen.
They live in a frame house under five big oak trees, at the center of a vineyard. Joe looks around the premises. He asks, “Who knew the house would be empty?”
“Just the family; that’s all. We don’t tell our business to nobody.”
“Looks to me like somebody knew you’d be out of the way for awhile. Who lives in that house yonder?” Joe points across the field.
“Just some poor-class people. Hicks is their name. I never talk to them; they never talk to me.”
“They might have noticed something; I’ll go have a word with them.”
Joe drives up the sand road to the Hicks house. A dog barks. Chickens move aside. Under a tree is an old pick-up. A young man is working on a fancy hot-rod. Joe thinks he looks sullen and shifty. “You’re Mr. Hicks?”
“That’s right. What can I do for you?”
“You live here with your family?”
“They’re back in Arkansas for a bit. Me and my brother stayed home.”
“I see. Where’s your brother?”
“Inside the house. What’s the trouble?”
“Somebody robbed the deGiorgios last night. I wonder if you noticed anything unusual.”
“No sir. Not a thing.”
“How about your brother?”
“Not a thing, so far as I know. In fact we weren’t home.”
“Where did you go?”
“Into Aurora. We looked at some stuff in Monkey Wards; we got some hamburgers. Then we came home.”
