Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum Page A

their recent history. But to go back into their past: the teeth are much older than early nineteenth century. They go way back. The American who first went mad was a recent immigrant from London. I hate it when you run into London—it’s so big, so many unhappy people and lunatics have lived there. But now I had a trail, and once you have your trail you just keep your nose to the ground.
    â€œThe eighteenth century. What a wonderful age that must have been. So much rational thought, so much bawdy behavior, a feast of life and intellect. There was a tradition in that century you must have run across. It’s the tradition, or motif, of the Accursed Find. Found treasures that have a bad effect on the owner. It’s a motif we run into even today. But this sort of tale abounds back then. Usually it’s a skull. A man finds a skull, brings it home as a curiosity and that night, boom—the place is haunted by a flaming knight, or a weeping princess, or, in some of the stories, a wolf that walks on two legs.
    â€œThis is where our little set of teeth comes in. I finally found someone at the Courtauld Institute to say that these are part of a tradition of cursed treasures, probably dating from at least the late sixteen hundreds. Superstitious owners would have prized them, but kept them put away, to keep their powers asleep, maybe. It looks like some people got rid of these teeth as soon as they could. So the ownership is a tangle of hundreds of people, many of them demented. You wonder why someone didn’t destroy them.”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    He had been expecting me to say something quite different. He opened his mouth and shut it, staring. “You don’t?”
    â€œThey’re beautiful.”
    He gave a slight shrug. “All right. They are. I admit it. And I’d have trouble breaking them up and melting them down. But that’s because, like you, I value strange and beautiful things. But you’d think that someone would have taken up arms against them, if people were so convinced they were cursed.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, in light of all this sad history, why don’t you give me back the fangs?”
    â€œThe curse might affect you, too.” I smiled, but my lips were stiff.
    â€œSomehow I think I can live with a curse. Maybe that’s what happened. Some people the curse doesn’t bother, like they’re made of stainless steel. The steel man dies, leaves it to his all-too-of-the-flesh nephew, and the nephew catches the curse like the measles. But look at me here, talking about curses. I don’t even believe in any of this stuff. When I used to think about such things I was an atheist. I’m the most skeptical man in the world.”
    â€œI think I’ll keep them.” I said it almost too quickly, but the truth was that the thought of losing the fangs made me very uneasy, as though someone were about to steal the clothes off my back.
    The teeth were mine.
    Zinser gave a short laugh. “They cast some sort of spell over the owner, is that it? So he can’t get rid of them.”
    I laughed, too. A spell. How funny. “Really—I think I’ll keep them for a while.”
    Zinser stared. Then he nodded and shrugged. “Okay. I had to tell you all of this lore, and let you make of it what you will. Maybe the owners would have gone mad anyway. Maybe they ate lead paint or had syphilis of the brain.”
    â€œMaybe none of it’s true.” For some reason I was defensive about the teeth, and didn’t want to hear any criticism of them. “Maybe they’re innocent.”
    It was a peculiar choice of words, but Zinser let it pass without comment. He did say, however, “There’s a lot of documentation. I’ll give you a whole file of it. But now I feel a lot better. I told you what I know—it’s not my responsibility anymore.”
    â€œYou haven’t told me the