his sperm had lost some of its vigour. Arcana like that, with hints of psychological causes.
In recent years sex had become largely symbolic. They made love once or twice a month and there was nothing much to it. In all fairness, heâd always been a little too quick and inattentive at it. But it could also be fairly said that Jan had never shown any interest in becoming a skilled, exciting lover. Sheâd always preferred the affectionate aftermath to the mechanics of the main event. And thatâs what they had come to, skipping the sex most of the time, and cuddling each other for the soothing warmth and comfort as they fell asleep.
Jan must know that he satisfied his sexual needs elsewhere, but if she did she didnât let on, much less make an issue of it. Charley tried to be careful and discreet. The age of Aids and an increasing awareness of womenâs rights forced new considerations but didnât significantly reduce the range of opportunity. People were people, and college campuses would always be highly charged with sexual intensity.
And so, this marriage. There was still something good in it, he believed. He could have given up and left her long ago, and she could have done the same, but they clung together. It was far from a model marriage, but a thread of purpose and devotion ran through it. There were moments of genuine affection, fondness.
He longed to tell Jan about Malcolmâs strange story. But how could he? She had been there when Fiona died, and the merest mention of the subject might be enough to unravel her. She never brought it up.
Maybe they should have sought more psychological counselling, although it seemed like they had had plenty at the time. Everybody from the parish priest to the county social worker offered their well-intentioned advice, and there had been sympathy and support from family and friends. Charley and Jan had had a hard time absorbing half of it, the rest washed on by. But there are some things you can never talk away.
Now this terrible story. Had it come from anybody else who knew him, Charley would have regarded it as a cruel joke. But Malcolm would never have considered doing such a thing, and his discomfort when he had mentioned it to Charley had been plain to see. There was no doubt that the psychic incident, or whatever it had been, had struck Malcolm as very near the real thing. Improbable as that seemed.
But was it? Charley was aware of a certain irony. He had devoted a good portion of his adult life to the work of Dunsany, whose books were saturated with the fantastic, the improbable and the supernatural. Charley had no doubt that if this had happened to Dunsany, the old boy wouldnât have batted an eyelash. He would have seen it as a glimpse of secret truth, as an intrusion of the higher reality into our drab everyday world.
Could Charley simply dismiss it, chuck it all aside as sheer nonsense? He wanted to, but it wasnât that easy. If, as Malcolm had said, there was one chance in a million that the incident was real, not a contrivance, then he couldnât ignore it.
At the moment, a more likely explanation suggested itself to him. This woman, the putative psychic, had most likely picked up on the residual accent in Malcolmâs voice and tossed off a random bunch of names and phrases associated with Ireland. Fiona was a common Irish name. Even Ravenswood was not so remarkable; there were Ravens-this and Ravens-that throughout Ireland. The country had entirely too many ravens by far, alas.
That was how they worked, he thought. They threw out dozens of verbal titbits, hoping that at least one would trigger an association in the mind of the gullible customer. They watched carefully, and when something scored a hit they added a bit more to it, feeling their way, building on whatever the poor hapless soul unwittingly provided.
But. Charley had futzed about this for a couple of days and still didnât know quite what to do. Finally, he
In recent years sex had become largely symbolic. They made love once or twice a month and there was nothing much to it. In all fairness, heâd always been a little too quick and inattentive at it. But it could also be fairly said that Jan had never shown any interest in becoming a skilled, exciting lover. Sheâd always preferred the affectionate aftermath to the mechanics of the main event. And thatâs what they had come to, skipping the sex most of the time, and cuddling each other for the soothing warmth and comfort as they fell asleep.
Jan must know that he satisfied his sexual needs elsewhere, but if she did she didnât let on, much less make an issue of it. Charley tried to be careful and discreet. The age of Aids and an increasing awareness of womenâs rights forced new considerations but didnât significantly reduce the range of opportunity. People were people, and college campuses would always be highly charged with sexual intensity.
And so, this marriage. There was still something good in it, he believed. He could have given up and left her long ago, and she could have done the same, but they clung together. It was far from a model marriage, but a thread of purpose and devotion ran through it. There were moments of genuine affection, fondness.
He longed to tell Jan about Malcolmâs strange story. But how could he? She had been there when Fiona died, and the merest mention of the subject might be enough to unravel her. She never brought it up.
Maybe they should have sought more psychological counselling, although it seemed like they had had plenty at the time. Everybody from the parish priest to the county social worker offered their well-intentioned advice, and there had been sympathy and support from family and friends. Charley and Jan had had a hard time absorbing half of it, the rest washed on by. But there are some things you can never talk away.
Now this terrible story. Had it come from anybody else who knew him, Charley would have regarded it as a cruel joke. But Malcolm would never have considered doing such a thing, and his discomfort when he had mentioned it to Charley had been plain to see. There was no doubt that the psychic incident, or whatever it had been, had struck Malcolm as very near the real thing. Improbable as that seemed.
But was it? Charley was aware of a certain irony. He had devoted a good portion of his adult life to the work of Dunsany, whose books were saturated with the fantastic, the improbable and the supernatural. Charley had no doubt that if this had happened to Dunsany, the old boy wouldnât have batted an eyelash. He would have seen it as a glimpse of secret truth, as an intrusion of the higher reality into our drab everyday world.
Could Charley simply dismiss it, chuck it all aside as sheer nonsense? He wanted to, but it wasnât that easy. If, as Malcolm had said, there was one chance in a million that the incident was real, not a contrivance, then he couldnât ignore it.
At the moment, a more likely explanation suggested itself to him. This woman, the putative psychic, had most likely picked up on the residual accent in Malcolmâs voice and tossed off a random bunch of names and phrases associated with Ireland. Fiona was a common Irish name. Even Ravenswood was not so remarkable; there were Ravens-this and Ravens-that throughout Ireland. The country had entirely too many ravens by far, alas.
That was how they worked, he thought. They threw out dozens of verbal titbits, hoping that at least one would trigger an association in the mind of the gullible customer. They watched carefully, and when something scored a hit they added a bit more to it, feeling their way, building on whatever the poor hapless soul unwittingly provided.
But. Charley had futzed about this for a couple of days and still didnât know quite what to do. Finally, he
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