18
Polly Chalmers was walking slowly up Main Street toward Needful Things with her aching hands bundled into her warmest pair of mittens when she heard the first police siren. She stopped and watched as one of the county’s three brown Plymouth cruisers belted through the intersection of Main and Laurel, lights flashing and twirling. It was doing fifty already and still accelerating. It was closely followed by a second cruiser.
She watched them out of sight, frowning. Sirens and racing police cruisers were a rarity in The Rock. She wondered what had happened-something a little more serious than a cat up a tree, she supposed. Alan would tell her when he called that evening.
Polly looked up the street again and saw Leland Gaunt standing in the doorway of his shop, also watching after the cruisers with an expression of mild curiosity on his face. Well, that answered one question: he was in. Nettle had never called her back to let her know one way or another. This hadn’t surprised Polly much; the surface of Nettle’s mind was slippery, and things had a way of sliding right off.
She walked on up the street. Mr. Gaunt looked around and saw her. His face lit up in a smile.
“Ms. Chalmers! How nice that you could drop by!”
She smiled wanly. The pain, which had abated for awhile that morning, was now creeping back, thrusting its network of thin, cruel wires through the flesh of her hands. “I thought we’d agreed on Polly.”
“Polly, then. Come inside it’s awfully good to see you. What’s all the excitement?”
“I don’t know,” she said. He held the door for her and she went past him into the shop. “I suppose someone’s been hurt and needs to go to the hospital. Medical Assistance in Norway is awfully slow on the weekends. Although why the dispatcher would send two cruisers…”
Mr. Gaunt closed the door behind them. The bell tinkled. The shade on the door was down, and with the sun now going the other way, the interior of Needful Things was gloomy… but, Polly thought, if gloom could ever be pleasant, this gloom was. A small reading lamp shed a golden circle on the counter by Mr. Gaunt’s old-fashioned cash register. A book lay open there. It was Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Mr. Gaunt was looking at her closely, and Polly had to smile again at the expression of concern in his eyes.
“My hands have been kicking up the very dickens these last few days,” she said. “I guess I don’t exactly look like Demi Moore.”
“You look like a woman who is very tired and in quite a lot of discomfort,” he said.
The smile on her face wavered. There was understanding and deep compassion in his voice, and for a moment Polly was afraid she might burst into tears. The thought which kept the tears at bay was an odd one: His hands. If I cry, he’ll try to comfort me. He’ll put his hands on me.
She buttressed the smile.
“I’ll survive; I always have. Tell me-did Nettle Cobb happen to drop by?”
“Today?” He frowned. “No; not today. If she had, I would have shown her a new piece of carnival glass that came in yesterday. It’s not as nice as the one I sold her last week, but I thought she might be interested. Why do you ask?”
“Oh… no reason,” Polly said. “She said she might, but Nettle… Nettle often forgets things.”
“She strikes me as a woman who has had a hard life,” Mr. Gaunt said gravely.
“Yes. Yes, she has.” Polly spoke these words slowly and mechanically. She could not seem to take her eyes from his. Then one of her hands brushed against the edge of a glass display case, and that caused her to break eye-contact. A little gasp of pain escaped her.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Polly said, but it was a lie she wasn’t even within shouting distance of fine.
Mr. Gaunt clearly understood this. “You’re not well,” he said decisively. “Therefore I’m going to dispense with the small-talk.
The item which I wrote you about did come in. I’m going to give it to you and send you home.”
“Give it to me?”
“Oh, I’m not offering you a present,” he said as he went behind the cash register. “We hardly know each other well enough for that, do we?”
She smiled. He was clearly a kind man, a man who, naturally enough, wanted to do something nice for the first person in Castle Rock who had done something nice for him. But she was having a hard time responding-was having a hard time even following the conversation. The pain in her hands was monstrous. She now wished she hadn’t come, and, kindness or no kindness, all she wanted to do was get out and go home and take a pain-pill.
“This is the sort of item a vendor has to offer on trial-if he’s an ethical man, that is.” He produced a ring of keys, selected one, and unlocked the drawer under the cash register. “If you try it for a couple of days and discover it is worthless to you-and I have to tell you that will probably be the case you return it to me. If, on the other hand, you find it provides you with some relief, we can talk price.” He smiled at her. “And for you, the price would be rock-bottom, I can assure you.”
She looked at him, puzzled. Relief? What was he talking about?
He brought out a small white box and set it on the counter. He took off the lid with his odd, long-fingered hands, and removed a small silver object on a fine chain from the cotton batting inside.
It seemed to be a necklace of some sort, but the thing which hung down when Mr. Gaunt tented his fingers over the chain looked like a tea-ball, or an oversized thimble.
“This is Egyptian, Polly. Very old. Not as old as the Pyramidsgosh, no!-but still very old. There’s something inside it.
Some sort of herb, I think, although I’m not sure.” He wiggled his fingers up and down. The silver tea-ball (if that was what it was) jounced at the bottom of the chain. Something shifted inside, something which made a dusty, slithery sound. Polly found it vaguely unpleasant.
“It’s called an azka, or perhaps an azakah,” Mr. Gaunt said.
“Either way, it’s an amulet which is supposed to ward off pain.”
Polly tried a smile. She wanted to be polite, but really. - she had come all the way down here for this? The thing didn’t even have any aesthetic value. It was ugly, not to put too fine a point on it.
“I really don’t think.
“I don’t, either,” he said, “but desperate situations often call for desperate measures. I assure you it is quite genuine… at least in the sense that it wasn’t made in Taiwan. It is an authentic Egyptian artifact-not quite a relic, but an artifact most certainly-from the period of the Later Decline. It comes with a certificate of provenance which identifies it as a tool of benka-litis, or white magic. I want you to take it and wear it. I suppose it sounds silly. Probably it is. But there are stranger things in heaven and earth than some of us dream Of, even in our wilder moments of philosophy.”
“Do you really believe that?” Polly asked.
“Yes. I’ve seen things in my time that make a healing medallion or amulet look perfectly ordinary.” A fugitive gleam flickered momentarily in his hazel eyes. “Many such things. The world’s odd corners are filled with fabulous junk, Polly. But never mind that; you are the issue here.
“Even the other day, when I suspect the pain was not nearly as bad as it is right now, I got a good idea of just how unpleasant your situation had become. I thought this little… item… might be worth a try. After all, what have you to lose? Nothing else you’ve tried has worked, has it?”
“I appreciate the thought, Mr. Gaunt, really I do, but-”
“Leland.
Please.”
“Yes, all right. I appreciate the thought, Leland, but I’m afraid I’m not superstitious.”
She looked up and saw his bright hazel eyes were fixed upon her.
“It doesn’t matter if you are or not, Polly… because this is.”
He wiggled his fingers. The azka bobbed gently at the end of its chain.