The Eyes that saw the Wind



Reynolds smirked like the cat that ate the canary as he came into the bar of the Metropole Hotel. I must have caught his eye, as he came straight over to the table where I was sitting and took a seat.


“Hello, Old Man,” he said. 


“I thought you were in…where was it? Costa Rica?” I waved the waiter over and ordered him an amontillado. He loved the stuff, purely for its associations, I think.


“British Honduras,” he replied. HIs work took him to many exotic locales and, whenever I saw him, he was usually either just returned from some trip, or just about to leave. Lean and tall, with shockingly blonde hair, I was always surprised that he never returned sunburned from his tropical jaunts. But he assured me he never went out until late in the afternoon; I suppose that explained it


We exchanged pleasantries and sipped our drinks; I could tell he couldn’t wait to tell me something – probably something as outlandish as most of his traveller’s tales – but he was keeping it secret, for now. The bar was getting busier, and it wasn’t long before he suggested we find somewhere quieter to continue our conversation. 


“What about the club?” Reynolds suggested, and I agreed. The lively young crowd was cranking up the jukebox, and if he was going to tell me something, I didn't want half the tale lost in the din. The York Club is quiet and reserved, and was only a block or so from the Metropole; it wasn’t long before we were ensconced in two armchairs, near the fire. Once the waiter disappeared, I decided it was time to draw his secret out of him.


“So what side trip made you so happy?” I asked him. He looked around as if to make sure we were alone, as the clock chimed the quarter hour. 


“Can you keep a secret, Old Man?” Reynolds asked. He leaned toward me and spoke in a quiet voice, his blue eyes searching my face.


“Have I ever let a confidence slip?” I replied.  He knew that, in our circle, I was known as the Confessional; I knew many secrets, and would take them to the grave. He drew a vial from his pocket and held it up. Through the glass I could see what looked like a dried toadstool. The cap was a vivid purple, almost magenta, and it was covered with small, white warts.


“What is it, then?” I asked him.


“Amantia Amorartis,” he looked triumphant, and I think my blank look must have upset him, as he continued to speak with some agitation. “Alhazred’s Agaric? Surely you’ve heard of it.”


“I can’t say I have,” I replied.

 

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