Bird isle, p.1
Bird Isle, page 1
Bird Isle
Copyright 1947, 2013 by Jack Vance
Cover art by Howard Kistler
Published by
Spatterlight Press
ISBN 978-1-61947-017-0
2013-06-24
Visit jackvance.com for more
Spatterlight Press releases
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.
Digitize: Richard Chandler, Joel Hedlund, Andreas Irle, John A. Schwab, Format: R.C. Lacovara, Diff: David Reitsema, Dave Worden, Tech Proof: Dave Worden, Text Integrity: Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Dave Worden, Implement: Derek W. Benson, Mike Dennison, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Andreas Irle, Comp Review: Christian J. Corley, Charles King, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, Update Verify: Marcel van Genderen, Charles King, Paul Rhoads, Robin L. Rouch, Dave Worden, RTF-Diff: Errico Rescigno, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Marc Herant, Karl Kellar, David A. Kennedy, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Jim Pattison, Joel Riedesel, Robin L. Rouch, Hans van der Veeke, Douglas Wilson
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
Bird Isle
THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION
Oakland
2012
Previously published as
Bird Island
and
Isle of Peril
Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter I
Sunlight sparkled on the water; the surf rushing up Bird Island beach glistened an aching white. Along the horizon a gray midge of a steamer eased south, the intervening sea as blue as cobalt. The old gray planks of the hotel veranda soaked up the sun, giving off the pleasant incense of hot weathered wood. From the beach came the smell of salt water, kelp; from the hills behind the hotel drifted the fragrance of heather, sage, verbena, cedar.
Coves yawned, flexed his arms, and glanced approvingly down the front of the hotel. What if the paint was peeling? When times got better, new paint might — or might not — be applied, depending on how Coves felt at the moment. In the meantime the old place had atmosphere.
The door from the lobby opened and one of the regular guests, Mrs. Lukens, came hobbling out. This was Mrs. Lukens’ favorite chair in which he sat. Oh, well, thought Coves — one of the minor inconveniences of operating a resort hotel. He prepared to rise.
Rexie, the hotel cat, who lay sprawled across the veranda enjoying the sunshine, cried out in anguish, and Mrs. Lukens fell creaking to the worn rag rug.
Coves leaped forward and assisted the groaning woman to a chair.
“Mr. Coves,” she gasped, “I don’t know what this place is coming to. It’s a mortal risk staying here. This morning I caught my heel in the carpet on the stair and nearly fell, and the hot-water tap pinches my hand every time I turn it — and there’s never any hot water —”
“First thing I’ll attend to.”
“— and that cat everywhere so that it’s an ordeal walking across the floor …”
Mrs. Lukens fell quiet, and Coves went to his desk in the dim lobby.
Afternoon fog creeping in from the ocean blocked out the sun. Coves looked around the lobby. Dingy place. Rickety furnishings. He kept the few guests he did only because his rates were low. Quiet old-fashioned atmosphere, no expensive extras — so read the modest advertisement he ran in the San Francisco Chronicle twice a month.
A vision came before his eyes, the advertisement as it should have read: Gayety, laughter, romance, in an atmosphere of sumptuous luxury! Exquisite appointments, continental cuisine, the most fashionable watering place this side of Biarritz! Thrill to the glamour of a vacation at exciting Bird Island Hotel!
Coves, contrasting the image with the fact, sighed. Since many of his guests supported temperance societies, Coves dared not push the sale of whisky. And when, occasionally, someone young and lively wandered in, they found nothing to entertain them. Mrs. Lukens, Mr. Bates, Miss Throop, and Mrs. Arly preempted the lobby with a nightly rubber of whist, and scowled at distracting sounds — especially dance music. It was a vicious circle, thought Coves.
The door opened, and Al Carper, who operated the launch to Monterey, lounged in. Carper was grotesque and gangling, with eyes almost adjoining across the big shell of his nose.
“Hi there, Coves,” said Carper. “Looks like you lost your last friend.”
Coves shook his head. “This is a nerve-wracking business, Al. Sometimes I don’t think it’s worth the effort.”
“Well,” said Carper, helping himself to a toothpick, “seems like everybody’s got his headache. I got mine and it’s a dilly. If you think you’re hard-pressed, you ought to try cranking my ol’ engine some cold morning. Then you’d know what grief really is.”
“You don’t have to please the public,” said Coves. “There’s a thousand things to think of, and money is so short these days.”
Carper gazed around the lobby. “Funny you don’t get more business. This is certainly the spot for it. Nice climate, all them trees and hills behind you, so close to Monterey and Carmel. It’s an ideal spot … Finest place in the world for surf fishing.”
Coves rubbed his chin. “I can’t understand why the hotel isn’t more popular.”
“You ought to do the place over,” said Carper. “Expand, renovate, bring yourself up to date.”
“Expand? Why, we’re barely able to pay our bills now.”
“Seems to me,” said Carper, “that you’ve got a lot of land you don’t use. This is valuable property, this island. If you sold off a little of it, you’d take in enough to make something of the place. Put on a couple wings, a good bar, a swimming pool …”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” muttered Coves.
Carper shrugged. “You’re land-poor, Coves. Why, with a few thousand bucks you could really make a landmark out of the place. Look at Del Monte. Big bands playing there every night, all them society people throwing their money around. Why, man, there’s people that would go big money for a slice of land out here.”
Coves pursed his lips. “Oh well …”
“Aside from the ten, twenty acres old lady Pickett runs her school on, you’ve got the whole island. Think of how they subdivide ashore — little bits of lots, and then they want five hundred or a thousand for ’em.”
“Well, that’s completely out of the question,” said Coves. “If I sold, it would be in larger sections, to keep the island from being cluttered. And naturally I’d have to ask a very high price.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Carper. “Lay it on ’em when you have the chance, grab while the grabbing’s good. After all, they made it getting into you, one way or another.”
Coves nodded. “I suppose you’re right. I pay those tremendous taxes, and everything is so high these days …”
Coves, looking up from his desk, saw approaching across the lobby a young man with an artless and carefree expression. He wore a dark blue sweater, faded dungarees, and had an unruly thatch of brown hair. He stopped by the desk. “I’d like to speak to Mr. R. M. Coves.”
“I’m Mr. Coves,” said Coves.
“My name is Milo Green.”
They shook hands.
“I saw your ad in the paper and thought I’d investigate. From the water the island looks beautiful. I sailed down this morning.”
“You’re from San Francisco?”
“Right across the bay. Sausalito.”
“Very pleasant,” said Coves.
“I think I’d like it better down here … Tell me, just how are you subdividing?”
Coves grimaced. “I’d hardly call it subdividing — although I suppose it amounts to that. There’s quite a lot of the island I don’t use, which I’d like to see in qualified hands.”
Milo nodded. “Just what sections are for sale?”
Coves cleared his throat. “May I ask what your plans would be?”
“I’m what you might call an author — a writer — and I’m considering Bird Island as a place to live.”
“I see,” said Coves. “Of course, we’d be glad to have you on the island … I’m naturally reluctant to consider anyone who might lower the tone of the place. We want only high-class nei ghbors, in every respect.”
“I suppose I’m high-class,” said Milo.
“Oh I’m sure you are,” said Coves hurriedly.
“Just what is for sale, and what — ah, is the price range?”
Coves fumbled among his ledgers and account books. “Somewhere — here it is. This is a map of Bird Island. Miss Pickett occupies this section tinted red with her school, and the blue area we’ll need here at the hotel. To the north is this section marked ‘One’, and to the south Sections Two, Three, Four and Five. Section One is the high point up there overlooking the bay, and it’s perhaps the least accessible of the five. Block Two includes part of the beach facing the mainland. That’s a very nice beach, and really less exposed than this one, which gets the full force of the ocean. And it’s a cleaner beach, too. I can hardly keep my beach clean. Sometimes I think we catch all the driftwood and trash in Monterey Bay here on Bird Island. We get a lot of the Japanese net floats, too.”
“Japanese net floats?”
Coves indicated a dusty shelf laden with globes of rough green glass, ranging in size from a few inches up to almost a foot. “They escape from the nets of the Japanese fishermen and float clear across the Pacific Ocean. There’s no beach for miles around,” said Coves proudly, “that gets them as we do here on Bird Island.”
“That’s interesting,” said Milo. “I’ve seen them but never realized what they were.”
Coves returned to the map. “Well, Blocks Three and Four are very nice, on this knoll here to the south facing Point Lobos. Five includes this shoulder of hill, these picturesque rocks and this little cove. A lovely spot for a yachtsman.”
Milo nodded. “And the prices?”
Coves flushed. “Well, Mr. Green — the prices are high. You see, I’m offering very fine property. Quite extraordinary, really … Anyway,” he muttered, “Number One, ten acres, is ten thousand dollars. Number Two, ten acres, is eleven thousand. Number Three, twenty-eight acres, is twenty-eight thousand. Number Four, eighteen acres, eighteen thousand dollars. Number Five, twenty-four acres, twenty-four thousand. I’d have to have cash, of course.”
Milo made an understanding gesture. “You have the property for sale, you’ve set a price on it. If anyone wants it enough to pay the price, you’ll sell. If not, you won’t, and no hard feelings.”
“That’s it exactly,” said Coves. “That’s the idea.”
Milo said, “If you’d let me take your map, I’d like to look the island over, and then I’ll know better what’s on each section.”
“Certainly,” said Coves. “Possibly you’d like me to show you around?”
“Oh no,” said Milo, “don’t bother. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”
He left the lobby. Al Carper, who had been sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper, joined Coves at the desk.
“He seems pleasant,” said Coves. “I hope he finds a section he likes.”
Carper selected a toothpick. “Them writers is a funny bunch. I seen one a week ago in Monterey. He came through driving a station wagon filled with trashy-lookin’ women. Carmel is full of ’em, you know.”
Coves turned to his accounts. “Mr. Green seems a nice sort of person.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” said Carper.
Chapter II
Milo left the hotel and walked north along the beach. The noonday sun was warm on his shoulders; the ocean was dead calm, with a surface sheen like the finest blue satin. Shells gleamed underfoot and sea gulls rode overhead.
To his right a lip of compacted sand edged the beach; then, behind a terrace bearded with coarse grass, the central spine of the island rose: rocky hills overgrown with heather, gorse, genista, flowering poppies, larkspur, lupines, ice plant, tarweed. And clumped along the slopes, single-file on the ridges, the Monterey cypress grew — flailing their meager black-green foliage like flags, defying wind, ocean, mountain, sun.
A gang of jagged black rocks jutted out of the beach, and here the section Coves had reserved for the hotel ended. Above rose Section One, a rocky upland, almost a crag, connected to the central part of the island by a sway-backed ridge.
Milo veered inland, climbed over rock that was at once warm and cool. Up, up, up, until finally he stood on top the crag, the island spread below. He looked to the west, out across the Pacific — miles and miles of calm blue water, a deeper blue than the air.
He turned, looked across the bay to the mainland. To his left rose the Santa Cruz Mountains; to his right, the jut of Point Lobos and the Santa Lucia Range. Two miles east was Monterey, with houses white, yellow, blue and green, the docks and warehouses black and brown, the harbor cluttered with boats.
Turning back to the island, Milo looked down the white road of Coves’ beach, past the gray box of the hotel to the rocky south cape. He looked to the other side — and there was Miss Pickett’s Fine Arts Academy and Finishing School for Select Young Ladies — a sprawling shape of stone, brick and redwood on an expanse of very green lawn. A gravel road ran down to a handsome stone pier, and there was a pair of well-kept tennis courts to the rear. The school breathed an air of prosperity.
Milo consulted the map, traced the outline of the other Blocks: Two, beyond the school; Three and Four dividing a low hill, a wide, sunny heave of land; Five, the cape at the southern tip of the island.
Milo seated himself on a rock … Ten thousand dollars. No small sum. He could buy an entire house in San Francisco, a cabin at Lake Tahoe, a rancho in the desert, a prune orchard near Santa Clara, a chicken ranch at Petaluma …
He rose to his feet, looked out across the ocean, down at the surf on the rocks below. “Easy come, easy go.” He turned back downhill.
Rounding the corner of the hotel, he found Coves watering a row of potted geraniums from a crockery pitcher.
Coves set the pitcher down and turned to Milo.
“How did you like the island?”
“Very much. I like Section One especially.”
Coves nodded. “A magnificent view.” He wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “Do you — well, do you consider the price to be out of proportion?”
Milo considered. “Some people might be willing to pay you twice the price you’re asking.”
“Oh no,” said Coves hurriedly. “I’ll be happy to get ten thousand.”
“Very well,” said Milo. “Here it is.” And he gave Coves ten thousand-dollar bills.
“Hello? Bird Island Hotel.”
“Mr. Coves, this is Miss Pickett.”
“Oh yes, Miss Pickett,” said Coves. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Mr. Coves, I hear that you are putting your property up for sale. I hope that this isn’t true?”
Coves cleared his throat. “Not all of it, you understand. Just those parts of the island we don’t need here at the hotel.”
“I should think you’d have consulted me first, Mr. Coves. After all, I’m the person most directly affected. Heaven knows what kind of people will be overrunning the island. I have trouble enough now.”
Coves was aware that Miss Pickett’s dock was at once the favorite goal of young Pebble Beach yachtsmen, the favorite sunning place of Miss Pickett’s charges, and the focus of Miss Pickett’s sharpest surveillance. He said, “Well, Miss Pickett, I’m exercising a great deal of care in selling, and anyone who isn’t completely top-notch won’t be considered.”
“Well, I disapprove very strongly,” said Miss Pickett. “There’ll be considerable depreciation in the value of my property.”
“I don’t see why,” said Coves. “I’m only selling in large acreages.”
“Suppose these new owners subdivided further?” snapped Miss Pickett. “Suppose they all do? There’d be a town out here —”
“Oh no,” said Coves. “I’m inserting a clause in the deeds forbidding further subdivision for ninety-nine years.”
“Mmph,” snorted Miss Pickett. Then after a pause, “I suppose that my opinion won’t affect you one way or another, but —”
Coves said, “I’d be glad to sell to you, Miss Pickett. That would solve both our problems.”
There was an instant of tense silence. Then she said, “What is your price?”
“Altogether,” said Coves, “I am hoping for ninety-one thousand dollars.”
