Part 10 (2/2)
”h.e.l.l, forget it,” I advised. ”Kirby hasn't got guts enough to do anything but blow.”
But I was mistaken. Puncture a bully's vanity and you touch his one vital spot.
Old Jim had not gone to bed when we got there. He was sitting in the room opening on to his sagging porch, the room which was at once living-room and bedroom, smoking his old cob pipe and trying to read a newspaper by the light of his coal-oil lamp. All the windows and doors were wide open for the coolness, and the insects which swarmed in and fluttered around the lamp didn't seem to bother him.
We sat down and discussed the weather-which isn't so inane as one might suppose, in a country where men's livelihood depends on sun and rain, and is at the mercy of wind and drouth. The talk drifted into other kindred channels, and after some time, Doc Blaine bluntly spoke of something that hung in his mind.
”Jim,” he said, ”that night I thought you were dying, you babbled a lot of stuff about your heart, and an Indian who lent you his. How much of that was delirium?”
”None, Doc,” said Garfield, pulling at his pipe. ”It was gospel truth. Ghost Man, the Lipan priest of the G.o.ds of Night, replaced my dead, torn heart with one from somethin' he wors.h.i.+pped. I ain't sure myself just what that somethin' is-somethin' from away back and a long way off, he said. But bein' a G.o.d, it can do without its heart for awhile. But when I die-if I ever get my head smashed so my consciousness is destroyed-the heart must be given back to Ghost Man.”
”You mean you were in earnest about cutting out your heart?” demanded Doc Blaine.
”It has to be,” answered old Garfield. ”A livin' thing in a dead thing is opposed to nat'er. That's what Ghost Man said.”
”Who the devil was was Ghost Man?” Ghost Man?”
”I told you. A witch-doctor of the Lipans, who dwelt in this country before the Comanches came down from the Staked Plains and drove 'em south across the Rio Grande. I was a friend to 'em. I reckon Ghost Man is the only one left alive.”
”Alive? Now?”
”I dunno,” confessed old Jim. ”I dunno whether he's alive or dead. I dunno whether he was alive when he came to me after the fight on Locust Creek, or even if he was alive when I knowed him in the southern country. Alive as we understand life, I mean.”
”What balderdash is this?” demanded Doc Blaine uneasily, and I felt a slight stirring in my hair. Outside was stillness, and the stars, and the black shadows of the post-oak woods. The lamp cast old Garfield's shadow grotesquely on the wall, so that it did not at all resemble that of a human, and his words were strange as words heard in a nightmare.
”I knowed you wouldn't understand,” said old Jim. ”I don't understand myself, and I ain't got the words to explain them things I feel and know without understandin'. The Lipans were kin to the Apaches, and the Apaches learnt curious things from the Pueblos. Ghost Man was was-that's all I can say-alive or dead, I don't know, but he was. was. What's more, he What's more, he is. is.”
”Is it you or me that's crazy?” asked Doc Blaine.
”Well,” said old Jim, ”I'll tell you this much-Ghost Man knew Coronado.”
”Crazy as a loon!” murmured Doc Blaine. Then he lifted his head. ”What's that?”
”Horse turning in from the road,” I said. ”Sounds like it stopped.”
I stepped to the door, like a fool, and stood etched in the light behind me. I got a glimpse of a shadowy bulk I knew to be a man on a horse; then Doc Blaine yelled: ”Look out!” and threw himself against me, knocking us both sprawling. At the same instant I heard the smas.h.i.+ng report of a rifle, and old Garfield grunted and fell heavily.
”Jack Kirby!” screamed Doc Blaine. ”He's killed Jim!”
I scrambled up, hearing the clatter of retreating hoofs, s.n.a.t.c.hed old Jim's shotgun from the wall, rushed recklessly out on to the sagging porch and let go both barrels at the fleeing shape, dim in the starlight. The charge was too light to kill at that range, but the bird-shot stung the horse and maddened him. He swerved, crashed headlong through a rail fence and charged across the orchard, and a peach tree limb knocked his rider out of the saddle. He never moved after he hit the ground. I ran out there and looked down at him. It was Jack Kirby, right enough, and his neck was broken like a rotten branch.
I let him lie, and ran back to the house. Doc Blaine had stretched old Garfield out on a bench he'd dragged in from the porch, and Doc's face was whiter than I'd ever seen it. Old Jim was a ghastly sight; he had been shot with an old-fas.h.i.+oned .45-70, and at that range the heavy ball had literally torn off the top of his head. His features were masked with blood and brains. He had been directly behind me, poor old devil, and he had stopped the slug meant for me.
Doc Blaine was trembling, though he was anything but a stranger to such sights.
”Would you p.r.o.nounce him dead?” he asked.
”That's for you to say,” I answered. ”But even a fool could tell that he's dead.”
”He is is dead,” said Doc Blaine in a strained unnatural voice. ”Rigor mortis is already setting in. But feel his heart!” dead,” said Doc Blaine in a strained unnatural voice. ”Rigor mortis is already setting in. But feel his heart!”
I did, and cried out. The flesh was already cold and clammy; but beneath it that mysterious heart still hammered steadily away, like a dynamo in a deserted house. No blood coursed through those veins; yet the heart pounded, pounded, pounded, like the pulse of Eternity.
”A living thing in a dead thing,” whispered Doc Blaine, cold sweat on his face. ”This is opposed to nature. I am going to keep the promise I made him. I'll a.s.sume full responsibility. This is too monstrous to ignore.”
Our implements were a butcher-knife and a hack-saw. Outside only the still stars looked down on the black post-oak shadows and the dead man that lay in the orchard. Inside, the old lamp flickered, making strange shadows move and s.h.i.+ver and cringe in the corners, and glistened on the blood on the floor, and the red-dabbled figure on the bench. The only sound inside was the crunch of the saw-edge in bone; outside an owl began to hoot weirdly.
Doc Blaine thrust a red-stained hand into the aperture he had made, and drew out a red, pulsing object that caught the lamplight. With a choked cry he recoiled, and the thing slipped from his fingers and fell on the table. And I too cried out involuntarily. For it did not fall with a soft meaty thud, as a piece of flesh should fall. It thumped thumped hard on the table. hard on the table.
Impelled by an irresistible urge, I bent and gingerly picked up old Garfield's heart. The feel of it was brittle, unyielding, like steel or stone, but smoother than either. In size and shape it was the duplicate of a human heart, but it was slick and smooth, and its crimson surface reflected the lamplight like a jewel more lambent than any ruby; and in my hand it still throbbed mightily, sending vibratory radiations of energy up my arm until my own heart seemed swelling and bursting in response. It was cosmic power, power, beyond my comprehension, concentrated into the likeness of a human heart. beyond my comprehension, concentrated into the likeness of a human heart.
The thought came to me that here was a dynamo of life, the nearest approach to immortality that is possible for the destructible human body, the materialization of a cosmic secret more wonderful than the fabulous fountain sought for by Ponce de Leon. My soul was drawn into that unterrestrial gleam, and I suddenly wished pa.s.sionately that it hammered and thundered in my own bosom in place of my paltry heart of tissue and muscle.
Doc Blaine e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed incoherently. I wheeled.
The noise of his coming had been no greater than the whispering of a night wind through the corn. There in the doorway he stood, tall, dark, inscrutable-an Indian warrior, in the paint, war bonnet, breech-clout and moccasins of an elder age. His dark eyes burned like fires gleaming deep under fathomless black lakes. Silently he extended his hand, and I dropped Jim Garfield's heart into it. Then without a word he turned and stalked into the night. But when Doc Blaine and I rushed out into the yard an instant later, there was no sign of any human being. He had vanished like a phantom of the night, and only something that looked like an owl was flying, dwindling from sight, into the rising moon.
ROBERT BLOCH.
Robert Albert Bloch was born in Chicago in 1917. An early love of pulp fiction led him to write to H. P. Lovecraft in 1933, and for the next four years, until Lovecraft's death, Bloch engaged in a virtual tutelage in the art of writing. By 1935 Bloch had begun appearing in Weird Tales Weird Tales with somewhat flamboyant tales of supernatural horror; but in a few years he began exercising more restraint, developing the tight-lipped, hard-boiled manner representative of his later work. His first short story collection, with somewhat flamboyant tales of supernatural horror; but in a few years he began exercising more restraint, developing the tight-lipped, hard-boiled manner representative of his later work. His first short story collection, The Opener of the Way, The Opener of the Way, appeared in 1945 from Arkham House; two years later, appeared in 1945 from Arkham House; two years later, The Scarf, The Scarf, a chilling novel fusing psychological and supernatural horror, was published. Bloch subsequently alternated between such works of suspense as the novels a chilling novel fusing psychological and supernatural horror, was published. Bloch subsequently alternated between such works of suspense as the novels Psycho Psycho (1959), (1959), The Dead Beat The Dead Beat (1960), and (1960), and Night-World Night-World (1972) and supernatural tales such as the cla.s.sic ”Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” ( (1972) and supernatural tales such as the cla.s.sic ”Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper” (Weird Tales, July 1943) and ”The Skull of the Marquis de Sade” ( July 1943) and ”The Skull of the Marquis de Sade” (Weird Tales, September 1945; filmed as September 1945; filmed as The Skull, The Skull, 1965). Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's film adaptation of 1965). Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's film adaptation of Psycho Psycho (1960) brought Bloch great celebrity but also a certain pressure to duplicate its success, and his two sequels ( (1960) brought Bloch great celebrity but also a certain pressure to duplicate its success, and his two sequels (Psycho II, 1982; 1982; Psycho House, Psycho House, 1990) do not represent him to best advantage. Late in life he wrote a charming autobiography, 1990) do not represent him to best advantage. Late in life he wrote a charming autobiography, Once Around the Bloch Once Around the Bloch (1993). Robert Bloch died in Beverly Hills, California, in 1994. (1993). Robert Bloch died in Beverly Hills, California, in 1994.
Bloch's most representative work in supernatural horror is found in his bountiful array of short stories, collected in such volumes as Pleasant Dreams-Nightmares Pleasant Dreams-Nightmares (1958), (1958), Tales in a Jugular Vein Tales in a Jugular Vein (1965), (1965), Chamber of Horrors Chamber of Horrors (1966), (1966), Such Stuff as Such Stuff as Jugular Vein (1965), Chamber of Horrors (1966), Such Stuff as Jugular Vein (1965), Chamber of Horrors (1966), Such Stuff as Screams Are Made Of Screams Are Made Of (1979), and many others. The best of them are found in the three-volume (1979), and many others. The best of them are found in the three-volume Selected Stories Selected Stories (1988). (1988).
”Black Bargain” (Weird Tales, May 1942; collected in May 1942; collected in Flowers from the Moon and Other Lunacies, Flowers from the Moon and Other Lunacies, 1998) is representative of Bloch's work in its air of mundane realism, which allows the subtle incursion of the supernatural to enter in a spectacular denouement. It makes use of a fict.i.tious volume, 1998) is representative of Bloch's work in its air of mundane realism, which allows the subtle incursion of the supernatural to enter in a spectacular denouement. It makes use of a fict.i.tious volume, De Vermis Mysteriis De Vermis Mysteriis ( (The Mysteries of the Worm), devised in Bloch's early Lovecraftian tales.
BLACK BARGAIN.
It was getting late when I switched off the neon and got busy behind the fountain with my silver polish. The fruit syrup came off easily, but the chocolate stuck and the hot fudge was greasy. I wish to G.o.d they wouldn't order hot fudge.
I began to get irritated as I scrubbed away. Five hours on my feet, every night, and what did I have to show for it? Varicose veins. Varicose veins, and the memory of a thousand foolish faces. The veins were easier to bear than the memories. They were so depressing, those customers of mine. I knew them all by heart.
In early evening all I got was ”c.o.kes.” I could spot the ”c.o.kes” a mile away. Giggling high-school girls, with long shocks of uncombed brown hair, with their shapeless tan fingertip coats and the repulsively thick legs bulging over boots. They were all ”c.o.kes.” For forty-five minutes they'd monopolize a booth, messing up the tile table top with cigarette ashes, crushed napkins daubed in lipstick and little puddles of spilled water. Whenever a high-school girl came in, I automatically reached for the cola pump.
A little later in the evening I got the ”gimmie two packs” crowd. Sports s.h.i.+rts hanging limply over hairy arms meant the filtertips. Blue work s.h.i.+rts with rolled sleeves disclosing tattooing meant the unfiltered cigarettes.
Once in awhile I got a fat boy. He was always a ”cigar.” If he wore gla.s.ses he was a two-for-thirty-fiver. If not, I merely had to indicate the box on the counter. Ten cents straight, Mild Havana-all long filler.
Oh, it was monotonous. The ”notions” family, who invariably departed with aspirin, Ex-Lax, candy bars, and a pint of ice cream. The ”public library” crowd-tall, skinny youths bending the pages of magazines on the rack and never buying. The ”soda waters” with their trousers wrinkled by the sofa of a one room apartment, the ”curlers,” always looking furtively toward the baby buggy outside. And around ten, the ”pineapple sundaes”-fat women Bingo players. Followed by the ”chocolate sodas” when the show let out. More booth parties, giggling girls and red-necked young men in sloppy mod outfits.
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