Berkeley, California
Nick Mamatas has published over one hundred short stories in a variety of genres: horror, crime, science fiction, fantasy, pornography, transgressive, and experimental. His work has variously appeared in anthologies such as Best American Mystery Stories, Lovecraft’s Monsters, and Caledonia Dreamin’, Internet magazines such as Tor.com, ChiZine, Lamplight, and Mississippi Review’s online edition, in print in Asimov’s Science Fiction and Weird Tales, and in literary journals including subTERRAIN and Gargoyle. His novels include the noir Love is the Law, the alcoholic zombie novel The Last Weekend, and the Lovecraftian whodunit I Am Providence.
On an Odd Note
For Evelyn Licht
SEED OF DESTRUCTION
I always maintained that Mr. Ziska deserved to get on in the world, if only on account of the extraordinary richness of the lies he told. He started as an antiquary and jeweler in a small way of business, buying and selling all kinds of valueless rubbish—cameo brooches, Indian bangles and job lots of semi-precious stones. I used to let him sell me knickknacks for which I had no earthly use, just for the sake of his sales talks, for in Mr. Ziska’s stuffy little shop a paste brooch was not simply a paste brooch—it was, as he could always explain, a very special sort of paste brooch. It had been worn by Dr. Crippen’s wife; it had been found in the belly of an ostrich; it had fooled an Indian Maharajah. He nearly persuaded me once that a rusty old Spanish knife with a broken point was the fatal knife used by Charlotte Corday when she stabbed Marat in his bath. It was a left-handed knife, he explained. Unique, amazing opportunity, valuable historical relic, dirt cheap, five pounds. No? Four pounds fifteen shillings. No? Four pounds. Not at any price? Pity, pity to see a friend missing such a bargain! Then what about this valuable old meerschaum pipe, bitten through at the mouthpiece? This was the pipe Emile Zola smoked while he was writing Nana—look, crumbs of tobacco still stuck at the bottom of the bowl. A literary man should not fail to snap up this sacred relic. To anybody else five pounds; to me, thirty-five shillings. No? Then how about this candlestick? It belonged to Balzac. With this very candlestick he lighted George Sand through the streets when she went to catch her omnibus . . .
So he ran on. He always got me in the end, so that I still possess Lord Byron’s eyeglass, Beethoven’s paper weight, a rusty spearhead which belonged to Richard the Lion Hearted, and a brass ring marked with the signs of the zodiac and guaranteed to bring good luck. I have never been able to give the things away. He had what they call personal magnetism, that funny little man. As he talked he glared into your eyes and screwed his face into frightful grimaces. He wore an antiquated frock coat which, he once told me, had been the property of Richard Wagner, and never let himself be seen without a pink orchid in his frayed buttonhole. He was irresistible.
It was Mr. Ziska who invented the incredible legend of the Seed of Destruction. He made it up on the spur of the moment. There was something of the artist in Mr. Ziska. He was tired of telling the same old story about how the shoddy little rings and pins that he sold would bring good fortune to the ladies or gentlemen who wore them, and so he struck a new note. He had an inspiration. It came to him in a flash. I was there when it happened.
He had stopped trying to sell me Charles Dickens’ favorite gold toothpick, and had taken from a tray a gold ring set with a spinel seal as big as my thumbnail, clumsily engraved with a bit of an inscription in Arabic. He stood there, blinking at it. I could see that he was trying to think of something fresh, and so I said, “The Seal of King Solomon, no doubt?”
He blinked at me and smiled shyly and said, “No, this is not the Seal of Solomon. This, my friend, is known as the Seed of Destruction.”
“It brings good luck, I suppose?”
His eyes sparkled and his face assumed such an expression of delight that every wrinkle looked like a little smile, as he replied, “No, my young friend, that is just where you’re wrong. It does not bring good luck. It brings bad luck,” and he actually crowed like a contented baby.
He continued, “It brings bad luck. That’s why it’s called the Seed of Destruction. It brings very bad luck indeed. The inscription says: The destiny of man is trouble. If you’re rich, it’ll make you poor. If you’re healthy, it’ll make you ill. If you’re alive, it will be the cause of your death pretty soon. See? It was cut by a magician, an Arabian magician, a very bad man indeed, for an Arab prince in the days of Saladin. The magician put a spell on it, a shocking spell. This ring is absolutely certain to bring bad luck. Not good luck—bad luck. I personally guarantee it. A bargain, twenty-five pounds.”
“And you expect me to pay twenty-five pounds for that?” I said. “And, incidentally, it does not seem to have done you much harm. Come off it, Mr. Ziska!”
With infinite patience and something like pity, holding up his hand for silence, he said, “Calm, calm, calm! Listen and learn, young man. I have not told you how the enchantment works. This ring does no harm at all to the purchaser of it. Not to the buyer, and not to the seller. I bought it and therefore it cannot hurt me. If you buy it, it cannot hurt you. But if you give this ring away, the most horrible misfortunes will fall upon the head of the person to whom you give it. Do you understand? That is the whole idea of the thing. It is obvious, can’t you see? The Arab prince fell in love with a princess, but she loved another prince instead of him. Do you see? So the prince paid the magician a lot of money to make this ring and, pretending brotherly affection, he placed it on his rival’s finger. Three days later, the rival was eaten by a lion. But the princess, poor girl; she went to bed and died of a broken heart. And so the prince, who was sorry for what he had done, got the ring and hid it away. But one of the eunuchs of his palace stole it.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, knowing that Ziska was lying.
“Oh, it is equally unlucky to steal it. It must be bought and paid for. The eunuch was set upon by robbers and they cut his throat and stole the ring from him and sold it to a merchant in Aleppo. But they hadn’t paid for it, so they were caught and had their heads cut off. But the merchant sold the ring to a young nobleman so he was all right. He had bought and paid for it. The nobleman, who was trying to keep on the right side of his uncle who was very miserly and wicked, gave him the ring for a present. And would you believe it? That same day, the wicked old uncle fell off a high roof and broke his neck and the young nobleman inherited all his money. I could go on all day telling you what happened. Twenty-five pounds?”
“I haven’t got any rich uncles and I haven’t got an enemy worth killing. And I haven’t got twenty-five pounds.”