If life imitates art, I want to know why I can't paint out early mornings.  That particular day I dedicated my first few minutes to sitting up in bed, rubbing my eyes, and wondering what bum had turned the lights on at this hour.  After a while it occurred to me that the sun was shining, and the noise I was hearing was my alarm clock and not a pneumatic drill as I had been assuming.  A shower and a shave restored enough humanity that I could contemplate my day.  I knew I would be looking at acres of unshaven Wolfe over breakfast, and a man needs a certain amount of fortitude to face such a sight.

By the time I got to his bedroom, breakfast was set for two on the table by the window.  It was a neat compromise, and I admired it.  He wouldn't eat in bed when he had a guest, but he didn't want to give me ideas by actually dressing as he would for a visitor.  Given the eyestrain he was causing me, I thought he should reverse his solution, get dressed, and eat his breakfast in bed.  Since his expression hinted that he was not accepting suggestions that morning, I sat down and unfolded my napkin instead.

"Good morning, Archie.  Did you sleep well?"

"Good morning, sir.  Yes I did, once I checked under my bed for crows."

He pointed his fork at me, a breach of manners that he meant for a warning.  So I grinned and started a conversation about the changes in midtown architecture over the past couple of decades, figuring that his expedition last night might have left him with something to say about the topic.  He played along.

For the life of me, I couldn't see why Wolfe had broken the custom of years to have me eat breakfast with him.  Aside from his attire, we might as well have been sitting down to lunch.  Even Fritz gave me a questioning glance when he came in to clear up.  All I could do was to shrug back at him.  Wolfe's only unusual actions were to pick up a piece of bread, salt it, tear it in half, and give one half to me.  I ate it without comment.  I was learning.  He ate the other half himself before he went back to addressing his peanut-fattened Georgia ham.

When he felt we were done, he leaned back in his armchair and looked at his ormolu clock. The son of a gun wanted to try to make it up to the greenhouse on the roof on schedule for his usual two-hour morning session with the orchids.

"Do you have any instructions for me?  It's only idle curiosity, you understand.  I'm anticipating an exciting day of updating the germination records, and I would hate to alter my plans."

He'd gotten up while I was still talking and gone over to his wardrobe.  From the topmost drawer, he pulled out a loop of string.  He laced the string over his hands and surprised me by starting a game of cat's cradle.  If his eyes hadn't been narrowed in concentration, I would have said something, but, as it was, I let him work. Wolfe walked around the room weaving his fat fingers in and out of figures I recognized and then patterns I wouldn't even try to name.  Once he gestured me over with his chin, dumped the entire mess onto my hands, and made several alterations before taking it all back again.  After working on it for about ten minutes, he ended up with a tangled up mess that hurt to look at.  With a grunt of satisfaction, he dropped the thumb on each hand, snapped his wrists outwards, and unraveled the snarl into the original loop of string.  When he'd put the string away, he turned to me.

"Archie.  Your notebook."

All that build up, and Wolfe wanted me for an errand boy.  I was to go to various places and purchase sundry items.  To give credit where it is due, he was not losing interest in the case.  None of my purchases would be books, food, orchids, or anything even close.  In fact, a few of the things he wanted me to get were downright strange.  They were for his "protections", I assumed.  But, after last night, I had somehow expected more drama.

It is always a mistake to want excitement.  You usually get it and then you are sorry.

I had closed my notebook and stood up to go when he stopped me with a grunt.  It was the particular grunt that means he's about to tackle a job that he's been putting off.  I raised one eyebrow at him.

"Take off your shirt."

It's a sign of how long I've worked for Wolfe that my hands were unknotting my tie before my brain caught up with my hands.  "Just my shirt?"

"Bah.  Don't shrink like a maiden.  There is nothing in your personal history to support such diffidence.  Since I am sending you on errands that pose you a new type of danger, I must provide you with a new type of protection."  He had me sit down on a footstool, got a small jar from his bedside table, and then darned if he didn't finger-paint all over my chest and back.

"If you had told me you were going to do this, I would have worn a different shirt."

"You will wash off the pigment.  The remaining markings will be sufficient to support the matrix of protection without staining your apparel."  His tone was brusque, but I didn't blame him.  I could tell he was having difficulties just like I was.

I had thought when I first laid eyes that morning on Wolfe in all his adipose glory that I was out of the woods.  It turned out to be yet another beautiful theory murdered by ugly facts.  While I may not have felt anything different when I looked at him, having his hands on me was another story entirely.  I sat with Wolfe drawing on me, thinking about algebra and glaciers, trying not to squirm.  He wasn't complaining about my fidgeting, either, which meant he was suppressing some fidgets of his own.

It was a relief to get up and scrub off when he was done.  Like he'd said, some of the color stayed put.  Red-brown shapes and words I couldn't read trailed around my entire torso.  I shook my head at my reflection before I put my shirt back on.  I looked like a wall in the Bowery.  If I were lucky, the protection would be as strong as my appearance was ridiculous.

I guess it worked.  My only problem that morning was in persuading a character named Gwilliam---he spelled it for me---that I didn't want my tarot read.  The peace and quiet gave me plenty of time to decide what I wanted to do about the mess I was in.  I'm not one to worry about what I can't change, but that wasn't the case here.  After all, I could walk away.  Wolfe wouldn't stop me.  I didn't have to stick around and put up with his latest and greatest method of being obnoxiously superior.  I didn't need to have my life turned into an episode of Inner Sanctum.  I never had to feel again what I'd felt when he'd touched me.  As I paused to scowl at the display in a cigar store window, I realized that my last thought was the one that mattered to me.  It mattered enough that my stomach was churning as I contemplated it.

That got my dander up.  Some bright day I'll bean Wolfe with his own paperweight and on that day he'll deserve it, believe you me.  But, never before had I seriously contemplated quitting on him when he was condescending to work, let alone when he was in actual danger.  I'd been the one who'd said I'd do what it took to get the job done.  I wasn't going to make myself out to be a liar.  Besides, if I left now, I'd never find out what was going on.

I made it back to the brownstone in time for lunch, only to find that Saul was at the table before me.  Wolfe had brought him in for a briefing and invited him to stay.  Saul, as might have been expected from a detective of his skills, noticed the aroma wafting out of the kitchen and accepted.  Since Wolfe and Fritz were in the middle of one of their "My Country, 'Tis of Thee" fads, we were having barbecued baby back ribs with Fritz's sauce, late corn roasted on the cob, and soaked red potatoes cooked in their jackets.  Wolfe and Saul broke off operations only enough to dissect the Roosevelt administration's diplomatic efforts in Asia.  I concentrated on eating.

After Wolfe went up to the plant rooms, Saul stayed on.  Wolfe had asked him to teach me some of the basics of occult combat and I was willing enough.  Saul had been hired to put the high gloss on my fieldwork, back when I first came to work for Wolfe, and we had all been satisfied with the results.  If Saul thought he could teach me how to keep spooks off my back, I believed him.

My first lesson consisted of thinking of nothing in particular and having Saul take swings at me.

"So, how's Mr. Wolfe bearing up?"  Saul always used Wolfe's title under Wolfe's roof when Wolfe was around.

"He's madder than a wet," Saul swung, I dodged, "hen.  He hates spending money with no client in sight, and the shaman business is getting on his nerves.  Not to mention, he's stuck with it because someone's trying to kill him, again."  Saul feinted a loose kick at my kneecap and then followed through with a high jab.  I twisted and managed to catch his wrist.  I couldn't have done it a few years back, but Saul is slowing down a little.  It was a miracle he kept his reflexes at peak as long as he did.  I used to think it was a side effect of clean living but now I think it was his former employment.  Apparently, it takes a while for a body to forget how to be immortal.

Saul nodded his satisfaction.  "I tried getting through your skull while you were distracted, but no dice.  Mr.  Wolfe's protections are too good.  You don't want to rely on them for everything, though, so I'll give you some exercises to start toughening up your mental hide."  He crossed the office and sat in the red leather chair.

"As long as I don't have to eat chewy brown rice."  I straightened my collar and tie before I took my own chair.

"You and your anti-bohemian kick. You didn't complain so much in the old days, when you were fresh in to Manhattan."

"Sure I did.  You remember that Greenwich Village gang, back during the Alton case?"

"Good point, but still---Look, Archie, I'm kind of glad this is happening."

I felt my eyebrows climbing.  Saul has never been one for heart-to-hearts, probably because he has a strong notion of what's going on without having to ask.

"Okay, I'll bite.  Why?"

Saul shrugged.  "You've been building the walls up high the last couple of years, since that mess with the Chapins and since---well, never mind.  I'd chalk part of it up to your getting older and slicker, but you're also starting to believe your own books.  Maybe part of the problem is that you believed Fay Tremayne's book, too."

I shifted uneasily.

"Calm down, we both know what I'm talking about.  I don't need to spell it out.  It's good, though, that someone has stuck a stick into this burrow to stir you up."  He gave me a searching look that reminded me of his job history.  "Usually, you can both handle anything the world throws at you, but he's always resisted certain ideas, and you're," he visibly searched for words, "fighting on the wrong front."

I took a deep breath and then blew it out.  I'm glad to say my tone was calm when I asked, "So, you have advice for me?"

"How about, quit fooling yourself about what you want out of life.  This isn't Dante's Purgatorio. You can't get rid of anything by walking through fire backwards, not that there's time for that, anyhow.  We all know what's happening overseas."  He climbed up out of the chair.  "Enough Sunday sermon.  Let's see how your intuition is receiving."

Half an hour of that, and then he sent me out into Fritz's kitchen for fifteen minutes with instructions to not think about white horses.  Next I had to go up to the plant rooms and think about Wolfe's tie clip.  Wolfe was sitting at a bench in the warm room pollinating an Oncidium;  he looked up at me long enough to grunt and then went back to what he was doing.  Theodore Horstmann, the orchid nurse, frowned at me.  He feels Wolfe is his private property during those daily four hours up on the roof and resents it when I distract him.  I managed to ignore both of them, and even the late Autumn display of the ranked Ondontoglossums, and nail that stupid tie clip I gave Wolfe for his birthday into the center of my attention. 

After I'd served out my sentence, I gave Theodore, who was still being sour, a grin and left.  When I got back downstairs, Saul assigned me homework before he left.  None of it made much sense to me.  Just to end the day on the right note, dinner was pork stewed in beer which I can gladly give a miss.

That was what I got out of my first day as a shaman:  errands to run, cryptic chores, cowardly urges, a lecture by Saul, and some snotty stares from Theodore.  I was in some kind of a sweet mood by the time I went to bed, but I tried to put it all aside.  My usual practice is to empty my mind for three minutes and then sleep.  With a little effort, my technique worked, but I was not fated to make up any rest that night.

Wolfe was calling me.  I got up and ran for his room without bothering with little necessities like the alarm switch or doors.  As I went, I cut through the walls, gaining a confused impression of lathes and plaster en route.  Turning a corner that wasn't there, I was in his bedroom.

He was sitting bolt upright, glaring at the thing crouching on the foot of his black silk coverlet.  It was about half the size of a man and seemed to be built out of rotting leather, frayed rope, and clots of dried blood.  Although I didn't know what it was, it had claws, fangs, and intent, so I grabbed it, pushed it down on the bed, and got my hands around the throat.  It squealed and fought, raking at me with its claws, but the wounds it tore open didn't hurt.  My stranglehold wasn't hurting it, either, but I did have its attention.  The red irises glared at me, and it hissed a breath that stank of carrion and orchids into my face.  Its long, black tongue flicked out and I arced away from it, without loosening my grip. 

It had ignored Wolfe, which is always a mistake.  His big hands grasped its head and twisted, hard.  There was a sound like dried sticks snapping, a feel of things shattering under my hands, and the creature disappeared.

I stared at Wolfe, and he stared at me.  I realized I wasn't physically there, but I knew how to work around that, now.  Are you all right?

Yes, but you are not.  Let me see. His hand reached out and he traced a finger slowly along one of the wounds.  It closed, but his touch was distracting.  I tried to bat his hand away, but my fingers went through his, which was also distracting.  Archie, don't be infantile;  those rents can do you real harm if they are left untended.  I looked down at the pattern on his Turkish rug while he closed the other rends in my insubstantial hide.  He talked to me while he worked, probably to divert us both.  You no doubt recognized the creature from your near ambush two years ago.  It was remarkable to see the resemblance between its manifestation and a certain painting by Fuseli.  I have often wondered if he somehow caught glimpses of what he should not have been able to perceive.  Tonight's experience makes me think my musings were correct.

All very nice, I'm sure, but he needed to concentrate on our current problem.  Right.  How was it able to punch through your defenses?

It argues knowledge of my limitations available only to one who comprehends something of my esoteric identity.  In much the same way that a pugilist is vulnerable to attack by a master of savante, my defenses are more easily breached by one who follows a different discipline than my own and yet knows the outward conformation of my abilities.

So, Ingram, or whoever else it is, talked to someone who knows you?

Very likely, although I have a limited circle of acquaintances who share these interests.  Lift your arms.  He drew a line along my ribs, and then pressed a palm against the gouge beneath my left armpit.  I told myself I would rather cope with the feeling his fat fingers aroused in me than the acidic pain it subdued.

Have I met any of them?

Saul, for one.  You could count Lewis Hewitt, which I am sure you would attempt not to do.  You have also met another, but she is back in Europe.  Then there is---for the most part, my esoteric acquaintances no more overlap with my other associates than the few individuals who know of my contributions to haute cuisine are the same persons that understand my innovative hybridization techniques.

It was nice to know his confidence wasn't shaken, the great hippo.  About how many other people in Manhattan know about you?

Perhaps five, if we eliminate those I trust unreservedly. He tightened his lips.  I will have to speak with all of them, and I dare not leave these walls.  I will give you a list in the morning.  See them, and arrange appointments.  If you can, get them all here at the same time:  it might help to keep them under control.  Don't try to telephone.  Some of them would not like it.

It was just like Wolfe to expect that I could round up Merlin, Mandrake, and company at his command, using nothing but my charm and his name to conjure with.  Experience told me that it would do no good at all to complain.  Yes, sir.

Wolfe finished with the slashes, and narrowed his eyes at me.  Can you find your way back to your corpus without assistance?

I think so.  I'll come back and let you know if I have any problems.  I got up and looked down at myself.  If this keeps up, I'm going to start wearing pajamas to bed, even if it is still fall.

He snorted.  If, as you say, this keeps up, your state of undress will be the least of our problems.

I was charitable.  I let him have the last word.