The ecological problems of the late twentieth century have made us all aware of the need for living more in rhythm with nature—”walking lightly on the earth,” as an American Indian saying puts it. In architecture, this ideal combines function with aesthetics: houses should blend into their surroundings and leave the native wildlife undisturbed. But are we sure we know all the forms of life around us?
Charles Ott is a talented new writer who has contributed stories to Analog, Vertex, and other publications. “The Ecologically Correct House” marks his first appearance in Universe.
* * * *
THE ECOLOGICALLY CORRECT HOUSE
He was trying to wave his arms in a whisper, gesticulating dramatically for the benefit of his wife without attracting the attention of the rest of the party. He was not entirely successful.
“It’s an ugly house!” he hissed comically, sloshing his highball. “How can I say it’s not ugly when it’s ugly? Look around you—ugliness as far as the eye can see, right? It’s just plain ugly!”
“Keep your voice down and your arms in, Hugh!” his wife hissed in return. “It’s not your house and it’s not your party so you just hush up. Anyway, George doesn’t talk about your designs that way, does he?”
“I’ll bet he does, when I’m not around,” Hugh said moodily. “Fundamentally, we’re two different kinds of architect—he’s an idiot and I’m not. Leah, you saw the way this house looks from the outside. Like it was shipwrecked here, am I right? He made a big deal about the landscaping, working around the trees that were here, lots of sodding and bushes and planting and borders and God knows what-all and then he sticks in this horrible hamburger stand made out of concrete and sheet glass. I need another drink.”
“A lot of people like it,” Leah said primly. “Hatterson in the Sunday Press said it had very clean lines. George is a big name architect. I think you’re just jealous.”
Hugh began, “George is a big name . . .” He was interrupted by a hearty voice from the stairwell. “Hugh! Leah! Good to see you! Can I get you a drink? Do you need anything? Sorry not to meet you before, but this party is driving me up the wall. How do you like the house?”
Leah got as far as, “George, it’s just beauti—”
“Sure is ugly, George,” said Hugh cordially. “Whatever possessed you to build such a God-awful gas station? I can see it real clearly, ‘cause I’m drunk. You get drunk, too. You’ll see. Place looks like a post office, or worse.”
“Hugh, old buddy, you and I are old professional colleagues, right?” George said. “Belong to the club together, refer business to each other, all that, right? Nothing you could say could possibly offend me, because I know you mean it as professional criticism.” He sipped at his drink. “However, just a friendly word of advice, old buddy. Someday, somebody is going to cut your loudmouthed heart out.”
“Ha, ha, you’re a great kidder there, George. Too bad you’re not as good an architect as you are a comedian.”
“Oh, but I am! I built this house just as a gag. Boffo, don’t you think?”
Leah stepped anxiously between the two men. “George, do you suppose you could show us around? I’d love to see what kind of a house you designed for yourself. I’ll bet it’s got all sorts of clever personal touches.”
“Oh, I guess so,” he said. “Try to curb your spouse. In fact, let’s go into the kitchen and get some black coffee for him. I could use some myself.”
They filed down a free-standing spiral stairway and through the living room, Hugh shambling behind. George played the genial host with everyone they passed. Low beach sounds came through the sliding glass wall.
“Some kitchen, eh?” George said. “Everything in that row of metal panels is a different appliance—I had the uniform facings put on myself. The coffee’s in the cupboard and you’ll find hot water in the pot there. Leah, I believe there’s sugar and cream behind you.” The coffee mugs were a complicated stainless steel pattern covered with a decorative shell. Hugh looked at his sullenly, sipped cautiously. The kitchen also had sliding panels facing the beach; they walked out and sat at a table on the balcony deck. Small wavelets rolled in from the lake to make a low rushing noise.
George excused himself shortly to go back to hosting his party. After some time the noise began to fade as the gathering broke up. Hugh was on his third mug of coffee when George returned and sat heavily, puffing and making a show of exhaustion.
“Whew!” What a mob! Leah, don’t get up, I’ll fetch myself something in a minute. That lake breeze sure does feel good. I’m glad I don’t have to get up tomorrow.” Leah stood anyway and went back into the kitchen. George asked softly, “Coming down yet, Hugh?”
“I guess,” Hugh nodded. “Um ... I owe you an apology.”
“No problem. If you’re still feeling all right I’ll show you around after I’ve cooled down. I’ve been planning this house for years and I love to show it off.”
“Actually, Leah and I went through it early this evening,” Hugh said, a little formal with lingering tipsiness. “I’m afraid Leah was just trying to calm us down. You should get married again, George. I don’t know what I’d do without Leah to get me out of trouble.”
George smiled distantly, leaned back in his chair to watch the lake. The moon was just rising. Leah returned with a tray of rolls and mugs of bouillon and at the same time a big-eyed face appeared over the balcony rail, bearing a toothy grin. “George! Did you let everybody go home without telling me? What a bummer.”
“Hello, Susie,” George said without turning. “Been walking along the lake shore?”
“Yeah. Pretty out there tonight.” The girl crossed to the steps and came up on the deck. She was twenty or so, dressed in ostentatious overalls and affected a tomboyish manner to match.
“Susie, this is Hugh and that’s Leah. Hugh’s a colleague of mine. Susie used to be one of my students,” George explained, “when I was teaching Design.” There were polite murmurs all around and Susie went into the kitchen.
“So what do you think of the house, Hugh?” George said, still without turning. “I really would like to know.”
“Well . . . well, hell, George, the fact is that I really don’t care for it. I mean, I’ve got to be honest. Listen, did I tell you I’ve finished building my own place?”
“Why, no,” George said. “I hadn’t heard anything about it. The last I heard it was just a plan.”
Hugh looked abashed. “I haven’t said much about it. I really hate parties and I’d have to give one if people heard. But look, I want you to come around some evening. Tomorrow, if you want. That house is everything I believe about architecture and it’s everything this place isn’t.” Leah looked alarmed.
“Such as?” George asked placidly.
“Well, this promenade deck, for instance. The style is pure Kalifornia Koastline, but that beach is Lake Michigan, not the Pacific, and this is Illinois. It’ll be too cold to use this more than two months out of the year. The whole house is like that: it doesn’t fit in, doesn’t even try. A house ought to blend in, be part of its surroundings. This thing stands out like an appendectomy scar.”
“But if a building’s beautiful by itself,” Leah said, in a devil’s-advocate sort of voice, “isn’t that enough?”
“No! Everything ought to be beautiful together, because everything is together. You have to consider the whole environment, the world-system. It’s all a part of one thing. Do you see what I’m talking about?”
“Bravo!” cried Susie, emerging from the kitchen. “Are you a Libra, Hugh? Libras think in terms of harmony and wholeness.”
“No, I’m a Capricorn. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Oh.” She dimpled. “Did you ever used to be a Libra?” They shared a companionable grin.
“Seriously, George,” Hugh went on, “nature’s bigger than you are—you ought to try to get along, be part of your natural community. There is a biocommunity even on a suburban lake shore, trees and ground cover and animals and waterfront insects and so forth, and I think you’d be happier if you lived with it instead of against it.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Susie said. “You lead an unnatural life, George. I just looked in your cupboard and freezer. TV dinners, mixes, imitations, instants—why don’t you eat some real organic food for a change; No wonder you’re so crabby.”
“You’re ganging up on me,” George protested.
“George, why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night?” Leah said. “Hugh is just being coy. We just raised the roof tree on the place two weeks ago and we’re dying to show it off. Susie, you’re invited too if you want.”
“Thanks,” Susie said.
George leaned forward. “You used that phrase ‘raised the roof tree.’ I’ll bet you literally did just that, didn’t you?”
“Um, yes, we did. Hugh thought it was a nice gesture.”
“What’s all this about?” Susie asked.
Hugh explained, “Oh, it’s an old custom to hang a small tree or wreath from the highest point of a new house. Sort of a good luck charm.”
“More than that,” George said. “It attracts the attention of beneficent spirits. Am I right?”
“Okay. If you say so.”
“Wow,” said Susie. “This is something I’ve got to know more about.”
* * * *
At sunset the next day Hugh sat on a stump not far from his door placidly whittling, jacketed against a summer evening chill. The area around was a scrubby hilltop forest of pin oaks and hickorys, surrounded by farm lands and pastures on all sides. He was overlooking the dirt road that served the house: half a mile away George was gingerly easing his white Cadillac past the ruts. The scraping noises from the tail were clearly audible.
He arrived red-faced and exasperated, Susie sitting meekly quiet in the passenger seat. The bulky Cadillac looked anachronistic against the rustic background.
“Hugh, I thought you said you had your house built. Did you bring me all the way up here to look at your lot?”
“No, of course not. Hullo, Susie. Come on, I’ll show you around.” The three left the road by a lightly worn trail. Hugh pointed to a knoll covered with closely grown vetch. “That’s the garage.” They twisted and ducked around trees, coming shortly to the downward side of a woody overhang. Hugh gestured at the hollowed-out pocket thus formed. “Home sweet home, folks.”
“Mr. Badger’s house!” cried Susie delightedly, clapping her hands. “Is it all warm and snug inside?”
“Absolutely! The door’s around the side,” Hugh said. George squatted down and peered into the hollow, then reached out and rapped his knuckles on an invisible pane a foot or so in. “The window plastic is reflective-treated,” Hugh told him. “Come on in and see how it looks from the other side.”
The door was round-cornered, hidden in a tangle of roots but easily accessible by a flagstone path. There was a short stair that gave onto a broad, pleasant living room accented by a stone fireplace on one side and the wide, curving window on the other. It was obvious that the seemingly random forest had been groomed in the path of the window; the view soared magnificently through the tree-framed copse and across the fields and distant farmhouses all the way to the unsullied horizon, now gilded with the sunset. In that kindly light the rest of the furnishings seemed to glow, simple chairs and cushions, bright rugs and sturdy hanging kitchenware. The walls appeared to be quarried limestone, rough and friendly-looking.
Leah appeared, bearing a tray with coffee and biscuits. “George, there’s room in the garage for your car,” Hugh said. “Let’s go bring it in. We’ll be back in just a moment.” Hugh led the way down a passageway that ended in an underground carport. Its entrance faced away from the road. “I need my car to get to work,” he explained, a little apologetic, “but I’m going to get an electric just as soon as possible.” They brought in the Cadillac and returned to the living room just as the sun finally vanished.
“Leah, do you really cook with those pots and pans hanging on the wall?” Susie was asking.
“Sure,” Leah said. “I didn’t want a lot of phony decorations around. We have a couple of paintings—real ones, I mean—and I tried to make everything else both beautiful and functional. Like the coffee?”
“It’s wonderful.”
“I’ve got this mellow old coffeepot downstairs that everybody thinks is just an antique for atmosphere. I got it from my mother. But I use it every day, with real ground beans and I break an egg in the coffee so it settles clear, and that’s why it’s good. You can’t do that in an electric coffeemaker.”
“On the other hand,” Hugh put in, “the range downstairs is brand-new and fancy. That’s the way we built the whole house; nothing’s new or mechanical for its own sake but everything that ought to be new, is. It’s a modern comfortable house, and yet you could walk by on the road and not know it’s here. We tried to make everything fit in. inside and out.”
“Very impressive,” George said mildly. “How many rooms are there?”
“Just six. I’ll show you the lower floor in a few minutes—it’s a little larger than this and has the bedrooms, bath, kitchen, and library. Below that there’s just a little utilities deck. The place is small because we don’t expect the family to grow very much larger.”
“What are the walls;” Susie asked. “Concrete?”
“Nope. That isn’t facing, the walls are stone all the way through. We thought first of putting in paneling, but I decided that honest open walls were more in keeping with the spirit of the place. I like the texture, don’t you?”
“I’ve got to look after supper,” Leah said. “Hugh, why don’t you start the Cook’s tour? I’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
There was a staircase at the far end of the living room, leading down into the library, which also contained Hugh’s drafting table. “All the other rooms open from this hall here . . .” Hugh began, then trailed off. He was staring at a patch of dampness glistening on the wall, about the size of a place mat and irregular in shape. He was surprised, then disgusted, then decided to accept the situation with good grace. “That’s sure embarrassing,” he grinned. “I supervised the laying of those blocks myself. Shucks and damn.”
“Hugh.” Susie said, “is it just my eyes or is that patch shrinking?” Hugh considered for a moment. The dampness was vanishing, contracting to the size of a napkin, a saucer, a dime ... it was gone, and the stone was dry and unmarked. The whole process had taken less than a minute.
“Must be dry in here,” Hugh said feebly. “Although it smells a little wetter now—no, it doesn’t either. Maybe it wasn’t water, maybe it was a cleaning fluid stain or something?”
“Hugh. I don’t know what it is and I don’t think you do, either,” George said. “Let’s have a look.”
They rubbed their finger tips on the wall, peered at it closely, sniffed foolishly, all without results. Finally Leah called them to dinner.
Sitting around the fire afterward with brandy, George excused himself to use the washroom. He returned a few minutes later, saying, “Hugh, I like the rustic decor in the john, but I can’t say I care much for the room deodorant. What’s it supposed to be, damp leaf mold or something? It’s woodsy, but phew!”
“That’s odd,” said Hugh. “We’ve also smelled something like that around here occasionally. I don’t know where the smell comes from—it’s certainly not supposed to be there.”
“I thought I smelled pine awhile back,” Susie said.
“I don’t see how. I don’t like to use artificial smells and there are no evergreens around. Some kind of scented soap or something, maybe.” Hugh looked eager. “But that’s all little stuff. Susie, George, how do you like the house? You’ve seen enough to have an opinion.”
George looked pensive, staring into the fire. Susie hesitated a moment, watching him, then said, “Well, I think it’s great. It’s everything you said it would be, in touch with the biosphere, a real natural sort of dwelling. I’m not sure I’d go this far in designing a house, but I’ve already picked up a lot of ideas I can use.”
“ ‘I think I could turn and live with animals,’” George quoted dreamily, “ ‘they are so placid and self-contained.’ “ His face grew harder. “Hugh, you’ve got yourself a real ‘organic’ burrow here. Like Susie said, it’s Mr. Badger’s house, and I don’t doubt you fit into your ecological niche here the way a badger fits into his.
“But, Hugh, whose side are you on? You’re not a badger, you’re a man. Man doesn’t get along with nature, he conquers it. That’s what makes us human, sets us above the rest of evolution. Animals adapt to their environment, while we adapt the environment to ourselves. Remember what you said about my house, that it doesn’t blend in? It doesn’t. When I bought that lot there was nothing on it but sand dunes and grass, but I’ve made it into a comfortable place to live. That’s what architecture is about, imposing man’s will on this planet. We’re supposed to be pushing back the wild places, not compromising with them.” He became conscious that he was orating, fell guiltily silent. Hugh quietly poked up the fire.
Susie said accusingly, “George, I was in your class not more than six months ago when you lectured on ‘Harmony in Design.’”
He grinned, said, “Well, maybe I overreacted. Still and all, I stick by my guns.”
They were silent a few moments. Finally Hugh said, “George, I don’t have to tell you how I feel about that— you can see what I think by looking around you. Does it really give you any joy to draw up those concrete and metal things you do?”
“Don’t push me into a corner. I know there’s a lot of faceless, inhuman buildings around and hell, maybe I helped make some of them. But, Hugh, even when we fail, we try! We assert ourselves, take a stand. You’ve given up here, chosen to live with formlessness. I’ve heard you talk about farming as a way to get back to nature, but even a farmer contours the land to his own purposes. You’ve gone too far with this house, you’ve lost sight of the essentials.”
“I wonder if you’ve gone far enough, rather,” Susie said. “This isn’t a natural house in the way some of the places I’ve read about are. You still get your electricity from that stinky plant in the city, you have lots of appliances and artificial lights, and you’ve got flush plumbing and all that. It’s not really a man-dwelling, the way George means, but I wonder if the earth spirits will have you either?”
“Earth spirits? You believe in that?” Hugh asked, and Leah and Susie grinned at each other.
“I think I know what’s she’s talking about,” Leah explained. “I think we read it in the same Cosmo, right?”
“Yeah. It was a screwy little article about how we’re all getting neurotic in the cities because the earth spirits don’t come near us any more.”
“I’d tend to think it was the other way around,” George said amiably. “I don’t see why earth spirits should like us very well anyway, so if they avoid the cities, the better for us.”
“Look,” said Hugh impatiently, “let’s bring this back to reality—”
“Wait a moment.” George held his hand up regally. “Sure, this earth spirits thing is silly, but let’s look at it as a symbol. Suppose there were . . . well, beings that live in the earth as naturally and easily as you and I live on it, OK? Now, I’ve never seen them, and why is that? Maybe it’s because they really don’t come near the cities, because those are man-territory and we’ve got our man-smell or something all over them. Maybe animals see these beings and don’t care, because they’re quote natural unquote and have a sort of understanding. So where does that leave you? Do you see what I’m getting at?” George looked thoughtfully at the fire and remarked offhandedly, “Maybe you should move those grills closer to the fireplace, Hugh. I believe they’re starting to rust.”
“Damn!” Hugh turned. “Those are brand-new, too. Oh, well. Yeah, I see what you’re saying—you’re calling me a fence straddler. I’d rather think of it as walking a middle road between extremes, that’s all. I built this place to suit myself and nobody else. I can’t say I worry much about the opinions of earth spirits, or earth worms for that matter.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be opinions, exactly,” Susie said, musing. “Maybe they just wouldn’t notice you one way or the other, since you weren’t friend or foe. They’d turn away from the cities, but they’d just go in one side of this house and out the other, going on whatever sort of errands earth spirits do.” She looked startled. “That wet patch . . .”
“Was the mark of a water spirit going past,” Hugh finished for her. He laughed. “A right planar section of an undine on my wall! Come on, give me a break.”
“Some earth spirits would smell earthy,” George said slyly, “and you said yourself you get odd smells here.”
“And that rust on the fireplace screen could be the Great Essence of Oxidation on his way to the office,” Susie giggled. She yawned and added, “By the way, excuse me, but I think we ought to be getting home. OK with you, George?”
“I guess. Hate to run out on you so early, Hugh, but you know it’s a long drive back to my place.”
“Sure, I understand. I’ll fetch your jackets.” Hugh went to the closet by the door, then stopped and peered up into the short stairwell. “George, Leah, Susie,” he said presently, his voice strained, “could you come over here a moment?” They joined him silently.
“You ever hear those old stories about fence posts sprouting?” Hugh asked. “Look here.” The once smooth boards of the door were twisted and showing gaps. Roots trailed from the bottom of each of them, anchoring them solidly into the ground. Fresh twigs and pale leaves grew near the tops.
“I don’t . . .” Susie began, then checked herself. “No, I do believe it. But I think it’s a trick.”
“It’s not,” Hugh said dully. No word passed among the four, but they turned and walked with deliberate slowness down the passage to the garage. Before they turned the last corner they were greeted with a smell of rust and dampness. The cars were both spotted with patches of rust, incongruously dark against the slick new paint. The bumper of the Cadillac dangled from one brace, the other having corroded through. As they watched, a large wet patch on the wall grew to umbrella size, then slowly vanished.
George strode to the end of the garage and yanked sharply at the sliding door. It refused to move, the latch and frame welded together by rust. He swore softly.
“Look, let’s all go back to the living room,” Hugh said with disingenuous brightness. “I’ll call the police and have them bring something to open the doors. I don’t know what this is but I’d rather sit down with a brandy to figure it out. Hell, if any gnomes come out of the walls maybe we could offer them a snifter full, right?” Leah gave him a sharp look but followed the others back.
Hugh spent a few minutes on the phone, then joined the others sitting near the fire. “The state cops cover this area,” he said, “and I had to do a long song and dance to get them to come out here without saying what was wrong. But they said they’d get here in ten minutes.”
“Do those windows open?” Susie asked.
“This is kind of embarrassing,” Hugh said, “but no, they don’t. I’ve got central air conditioning. They’re hard to break, too; had ‘em made out of Lexan plastic. Let’s just be cool and wait for the cops.” Comically uniform, all four looked down into their glasses. Leah swirled her liquor, quietly tense.
“Hugh, I just thought of something,” she said presently. “Remember, about two nights ago, just after we went to bed ... do you think that could have been the same sort of thing as . . . um . . .” Hugh turned slightly pink.
“You’re such a puritan, you’re fun to embarrass,” Susie said kindly. “What’s the story. Hugh?”
“Oh, it was just a funny thing that happened the other day. We were going to bed one night and we felt pretty good, so we decided to, you know, make love. The thing is, we’ve always had a lot of fun in bed. I mean, we really do enjoy sex, right?” Hugh sounded defensive. “But this particular night, we started off like usual and then all of a sudden, for no reason, we were both just inflamed. We were grunting and biting and rolling around in a way we never did before. And then just like that it was over and we were lying there looking at each other.”
“You think it might have been sort of an elemental or something going by?” Susie asked. “I guess there would be spirits for sex if there were any at all.” Leah nodded her head indecisively.
“But why should they all congregate here this particular night?” Hugh asked, not belligerently.
George raised his head. “Do you happen to know what the phase of the moon is tonight?” he asked.
“No,” said Huhh. Leah busied herself for a few moments straightening her dress, then excused herself to go downstairs.
A few minutes later, there was a tapping at the window. Two state patrolmen in broad hats were standing outside peering into the living room. Hugh went to the window and began shouting and pantomiming to them while George and Susie sat quietly.
An odor drifted up from the stairwell, a gaggingly foul air of putrescence and rot, a spoiled-meat smell of palpable intensity. George, quickly pale and breathing shallowly, rushed to the head of the stairs but hesitated at stepping through the doorframe. “Leah?” he called, without much breath. “Leah, what is that? Are you all right?” He swallowed convulsively, then was helplessly sick.
The police had gone back to their car for tools. Hugh turned at the sound of George’s cry and rushed to the stairs. The other man was already stumbling downward, heroically, but robbed of dignity by his tottering posture. Hugh followed pell-mell, ignoring a frightened cry from behind.
The air was somewhat clearer below but weighted with another scent, a fetid dank atmosphere. Hugh slipped and went sprawling on the wooden floor: patches of a slick cottony white mold clung to his shoes. The grain of the wood was raised in some places on the walls, as though by dry rot.
George ran into the bathroom, shouting. He reappeared immediately and headed for the bedroom. There was no sign of Leah.
Pulling himself up, Hugh went to the doorway of the guest room. He stepped into the darkness and groped along the wall for the light switch, then stopped uncertainly. There were faint shiftings of light in the room, currents of denser, moister darkness. He had the impression of an inkstain, yards high and wide, spreading and rippling in lazily moving water, a cohesive soft cloud of blackness pouring in from one solid wall and flowing out another. It traveled in slow sinuous waves and ribbons, graceful as an eel or a school of fish, turning and doubling in easy curves. As he watched a negligently gentle arch grew toward and above him, dreamy as a bubble in thick syrup, trailing a filmy veil. With a gasping cry he threw himself backward, slamming the door.
Above him he heard hollow booming sounds, as though the police might be battering in the windows. The rhythm was underlined by high hysterical sobbing from Susie. On the lower floor, though he strained for any sound from the others, there was no sound but his own irregular breath.
The light was on in the bedroom but flickering unsteadily as though from a corroded connection. In the uneven flashes Hugh leaned against a dresser and shouted hoarsely for Leah, then George. A smear of greasy carbon black on the tufted bedspread caught his eye. He walked slowly to the far side of the room. A body lay stiffly on the rug, so badly burned it was impossible to discern who it had been. It was charred to the bone marrow in some places, only enough to cook the flesh in others. With a sick horror Hugh realized that his idiot salivary glands were already reacting to the smell of meat.
A path had been burned across the floor and included the body, a straight-edged triangle dwindling away to smoke stains at the point.
The guttering bulb finally gave out. In the light from the hallway Hugh shrank back and pressed himself into the corner of the room as a new presence penetrated the walls. It was a bubbly, lumpish mound, stretched into a low frothy form like a wave top, cutting across the room at an angle. It moved with deliberate speed: surely it would intersect him.
It was an amalgam of all corrupt colors—rust and verdigris, bile and punkwood, green mold and gold fungus. It fermented like yeast, was acid as lichens, brown as insects, crisp as ergot, soft and wet as carrion flesh. It stank and seethed, implacable as the most delicate erosion of stream water, traveling on a steady chord. Abruptly the booming upstairs was rewarded with a rending crack as the plastic burst.
Hugh opened his mouth to scream, red-faced, incontinent, gasping, weeping so violently as to befoul his lips and chin with mucus; anticipating communion with nature.