The Mountain that Slept Around and Other Stories

got the green number, but not the queen.

  He stared straight ahead for several minutes. Everyone in the casino stopped and waited for it to sink in. There wasn't a breath drawn for five minutes. And then he cried. Twenty seven years of tears came out all in a stream. The cashier and a waiter helped him out of the casino, limp and bawling, while the noise and activity resumed.

 

  It wasn’t really a casino game; it was weaning ghosts from their attachments, mused Nestor.

  The second man stepped up. He nervously drew out a favored crucifix. It had been hanging around his neck for years and years. Small it was in size and gold, but rich in the comfort it had given. And now he was risking it all for the third lady on the left. He closed his eyes while the dealer gave the wheel a spin and dealt out the cards.

  It was a stalemate: he got the queen and a green number, but not the number he had played for. He now had a choice. He could spin one more time and hope to get the right number - or accept some other lady.

  He looked them up and down. You could tell that only one would do and that he would go for her.

  He rubbed his fingers over his crucifix and prayed.

  No, Nestor thought, wincing; you can't pray with the object you are staking. You'll lose it.

  He turned away.

  It went just as he thought. The man realized his mistake before the spin ended. He cried, "Forgive me, Lord," but it was too late. The number came up red. There was a long deep silence, then he burst into tears. The crucifix was taken away and he was escorted out blubbering.

  "How about you, Sir? Lady of your dreams?"

  The question was directed at him.

  Somehow he felt every spirit in the room open to him, holding breath for a reply.

 

  Nestor didn't answer. He nodded to the line of ladies. “Show me,” he indicated, without saying.

  "Oh, you have to tell us, Sir. We'll call her up upon request, but you have to open a line for us so that we can see her.

  "Milady will come to me or she won't," he replied. “I won't meet her at the gaming table of spirits and their attachments."

  The intelligences in the room applauded. There was laughter and delight and genuine admiration for him. Everyone wanted to buy him a drink.

  "Not even for the songs you've written?" asked the cashier.

  "I didn't know you could stake those."

  "You can stake anything of value here."

  The thought crossed Nestor's mind that he had nothing to lose, for there was nothing he was that attached to anymore, not even those songs.

  Or was there? If he were to win - if he got the lady, wouldn't he become attached to her?

  Winning could be losing, then.

  Of course he could always set her free again...in which case things would be just as they were: she'd be where she was, he, where he was, perhaps to stumble into each other, perhaps not.

  "She's not yours to give," he said, and turned away from the table. "Nor mine to gamble for." He was looking for the door. He'd had enough of this noisy casino.

  That's when he stumbled into her.

  She was extremely indignant about something, hurling words of abuse at him. She was so beautiful, though, he could forgive her for anything. He would gladly bask in any emotion she threw at him, rage or love, though come to think of it, love might be nicer.

  He smiled and waited.

  It passed slowly, draining like a colander. He didn't even try to make out what she was saying. Something about leaving her so suddenly and the hard time she'd had finding him again and the depth of the water. It really seemed to make sense to her, but he knew it was all nonsense and she would realize it in a minute or two.

  She did.

  Then came the moment of embarrassment. It began in her but he caught it instantly, until they were both blushing - as much as ghosts can blush.

  And then, much to his surprise, the words of the butler came back to him, even as he gazed at her:

  "You'd best forget her as soon as you meet her."

  The warm pink tingle that had been glowing in the air between them streaked blue.

  Must he give her up so quickly!? He'd only just found her!

  It was no use. He already had. Even as he looked at her he knew he'd let go - from the gut, if not yet with the mind. The mind was always slower - like the guests at the banquet, it clung to the past...but it would catch up sooner or later.

 

  Not noticing the change, she was still beaming pink waves at him. He bowed and gently kissed her hand, saying nothing, and walked away - through the crowd and out the wall of the showboat, leaving behind him an open mouthed ghost.

  "You'll only spoil her by indulging."

  The words of the butler came back to him as he drank in the clear night air and star filled sky, and he knew his time was limited. If he didn't get back to the banquet in just a few moments his heels would turn and he would go back and indulge her: he'd fall and worship at her feet.

  A flash of weariness ran through him as he floated down to the water. With effort he picked up the pace, bouncing over the waves, along the shore and up the path. He was like a runner near the end of his race, his concentration narrowed down to just the few steps in front of him. He went through the wall, around the corner, down the hall - he could hear the music - onto the balcony, heard the drunken ghosts laughing and bellowing below, closed his eyes, travelled

  and was in his chair again, reaching for his wine glass.

  To his surprise, he picked it up and drained it. It turned his body ghostly pink.

  The butler came by and retrieved the empty glass, with just the barest trace of a smile on his lips.

  Nestor looked up at him in curiosity.

  The butler answered with a question.

  "Gave up the ghost, did we? You're rather quick."

  Nestor smiled.

  "Thank you."

 

  And of course now it was all falling into place. He breathed deeply and exhaled again. Before him the idiot ghosts were trying desperately to sustain an accurate impression of living, and botching the job badly.

  No newspaper critic would give them as much as two stars. Yet, on another level, it was just the show he wanted to watch, and it was a brilliant production: a first rate comedy.

  He sank back into his chair - literally, if he'd known it - and watched them go at it until the dream was all served up.

  Royalties

  "Who owns that statement?"

  The query rang in the air with sudden force, catching him completely off guard. He’d thought he was alone in there.

  "The gentleman has said `Not Hercules could knock his brains out,’ said the voice again. "Who owns that?"

  A dusty man with a short, pointed beard and balding head rose up and cleared his throat.

  "I reckon I do."

  "Oh, Will...you again. Is it correct?"

  "No, only partially: the full and correct expression is: `Not Hercules could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none.” It’s from Cymbeline, I believe."

  "Yes, yes, yes. Who cares where - it's yours, isn't it?"

  "Yes," muttered the dusty old bard.

  "Very well. Royalty?"

  "Standard." The shape melted back into the dusty gloom.

  The other voice melted into a shape: a stern eyed judge with black robes and powdered wig, who towered behind a bench. He was looking at Sturgis.

  "You must pay the royalty if you are to use that expression."

  "But the copyright's expired," replied Sturgis, who, though flustered, knew a little bit about law, having been a minor poet and legal assistant once.

  "Not in this district," replied the judge, in what seemed unnecessarily icy tones.

  "It must have - it has in every district. That play's common domain. It’s over four hundred years old."

  "Will, tell us how old you are," said the judge.

 
The gaunt, balding man leaned forward out of the gloom.

  "Four hundred fifty, give or take a few" he said.

  "In this district there is no common domain," said the judge. "Everything is owned."

  It began to dawn on Sturgis where he was. Fear clutched his heart, abetted by the thought it could be just a dream.

  "Standard royalty has been assessed," continued the judge. "How will you pay?"

  "I - uh - don't have anything to pay with."

  "Don't have anything to pay with? This is serious, my good man. Do you mean you have been making careless statements such as this regularly with no intention of ever paying for them? That is the height of irresponsibility! Would you lease a car and not expect payments?"

  "Of course not."

  "Twelve years deverbalizing. Next case."

  Sturgis was stunned. They carried him out with a glaze over his eyes.

  The next defendant was brought in.

  "Do you have anything you wish to say to the court?"

  The young man thought for a minute.

  "I didn't know the man was standing there," he said.

  The judge bent his lip.

  "Who owns that statement?"

  There was much mumbling and stirring. Presences were conjured which hadn't been in court for some time. Finally three persons stepped forward. A fourth, in prosecutor's robes strode forward with them.

  "It appears we have three authors laying claim to the expression,” said the prosecutor. “Arnie Sigurdson here is original expression-holder on the formulation `I know the man'; David MacNee is the father of the contraction `didn't'; and Sean Morris first formulated the past perfect of stand, followed by the indefinite locative `there'. All three of these gents are from the 11th century or earlier. We limited the search to English formulations, of course."

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk," said the judge. "Such careless use of other people's property. Did you