Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Where you want it, boss?” the earth demon asked. “What if I drop it over there?” He indicated a direction several miles away with a wisp of smoke.

  “Not there!” Nat said. “That’s where they just put up the new warehouse. They’d have my hide if I buried it under a mound of dirt.”

  “Well, where am I to put it?” the demon demanded. “You can’t expect me to go on holding it here forever. Although I’m certainly capable of it.”

  “Take it up to space,” Nat told him.

  “What part of space? Space is a pretty big place, you know.”

  “Put it on the moon,” Nat said. “On the dark side so it won’t show in telescopes.”

  “Got it, boss,” the earth spirit said. “Check with you later.” The big cube of dirt trembled for a moment, then shot straight up into the air. In two seconds it had dwindled to a speck, and in one second more it was gone entirely.

  It was only then, after the thing was gone and the deed was not to be undone that Nat realized he had left himself a problem.

  How was he to explain the manner in which this hole had appeared without invoking the forbidden subject of witchcraft? Surprisingly, no one asked, at first.

  Work went on. Then there came a day when Nat and the widow had to go into town for supplies. This simple trip had some unexpected consequences.

  Emma Hawkins looked over her list. Feed for the chickens, sugar, cornmeal, and some strong lye soap.

  Nat and Billy brought the carriage around to the front of the house for this trip into town. Billy held the reins while Nat helped Emma aboard.

  Billy liked to drive, giving it all his attention, while Nat and Emma softly talked about the work of the day ahead. And about the square dance in town that night.

  “Seems like everyone’s going,” Nat said offhandedly. He wanted to ask Emma but didn’t know if it would be proper.

  “Seems so,” Emma answered. She looked away. Was it two, three years ago she and the late Mr. Hawkins attended their last dance? Wasn’t a dance they missed, except those when she was heavy with Billy. And then Lem had to go get himself killed by that drunken Shoshone Indian.

  “I’d be proud to take you,” Nat said, surprising himself with his boldness. He blushed a hard red. Emma looked at him, amused by his embarrassment. “And I’d be proud,” she said, “to go with you.”

  They were both silent the rest of the way to town. Billy tied up the horses while Emma and Nat went into the general store.

  The store smelled of flowers, fresh flowers in a tin bucket for sale at a nickel a bunch. Barrels filled with flour, sugar, molasses, and meal neatly lined one wall. Blue glass bottles filled with ointments and tinctures shone in the sun which came through gingham curtains at the front window.

  Emma gathered the items on her list while Nat passed the time of day with the proprietor.

  “Needing a horse, are you?” the grocer asked. “Heard about a shipment from Kansas coming to town soon. Good horses, I hear.”

  “How much a head?” Nat asked, feeling the ten-dollar bill he kept in his right pocket.

  “Five, ten dollars, I’d guess . . .”

  The grocer’s voice trailed off as Red Swenson burst in the store’s rattly door.

  The first thing anyone noticed about Red Swenson was his size—Red was tall and round as a grizzly—and the shock of orange hair that drooped from his forehead in long, loose curls.

  Today, Red’s blue-denim-colored eyes were streaked with blood from last night’s bout with the bottle. Clearly, the bottle had won.

  “Seems you cheated me,” Red hollered, barely focusing on the grocer. “Bought three sacks of cornmeal from you, and when I got them home I found ’em full of worms.”

  “I checked all that cornmeal myself,” the grocer said.

  “Maggots, I tell you,” Red shouted, shifting his gaze to take in Nat as well.

  The grocer looked around nervously. Wasn’t but a week ago that Red had asked for a refund on food he’d bought here. And before that, yes, he’d been here about a week before. Same complaint. The grocer had given him back his money and Red had headed straight for the saloon.

  “If you’d bring in the meal I could have a look at it,” the grocer offered meekly.

  “You doubtin’ my word, Sam? You mean you don’t believe,” Red asked, his voice rising to a shriek, “that Red Swenson, son of Han Swenson, who was a pioneer in these parts, is telling the truth?”

  Swenson balled his meaty fists and advanced on the grocer, who backed away toward the cash register. Better lose a little money than get cracked, he figured.

  Red would have had his money, all right, if Nat hadn’t suddenly stepped between him and Sam. “Now just a minute here,” Nat said, putting a strong hand on Red’s shoulder. “Seems you ought to bring in the bad meal so Sam here can have a look at it. No worms in this bin here, far as I can see.”

  Suddenly Red’s eyes focused on this stranger. He was built strong, but was a good bit smaller than Red, and lean, like a man who hasn’t eaten so well for a while.

  “You talking to me?” he asked. “You’re the one from back East, aren’t you? Came here to Missouri and got yourself a woman master. And you’re talking to me?”

  Nat tried to step away, but Red put his hands on both his shoulders and held him in place. The big man’s face came down toward Nat’s, his mouth hard and foul with the smell of whiskey. “Seems we should talk about this outside,” Red said in mock friendliness. “Seems like you got a lesson to teach me in manners, so let’s have it.”

  Nat felt a furious heat rise to his temples. With a shiver, he felt his dormant powers spread through his body like a net of subtle electricity. He could throw this braggart halfway into the next county . . .

  No, he thought, not here, not now. Maybe another time he’d meet up with this big, foul-breathed man again and show him how much brawn was worth when it was matched up against witchcraft. But not now.

  Nat glared at Red but backed away. Again Red thrust his huge head toward Nat, but the whiskey went bad in the big man’s stomach. He grabbed at his belly and staggered toward the door. Just made it to the other side to retch.

  And that should have been the end of it. But there is a perversity that rules these things, because after that, the way Red Swenson told it, Nat put the evil eye on him, making him sick with a peculiar gesture that sure looked like witch-stuff. This, combined with the rumors about the miraculous cesspool, was enough to decide the Reverend Harrelson to pay Nat a visit.

  The Reverend Harrelson was blunt and didn’t beat around the bush. “Young fellow, there’s been some bad talk about you going on.”

  “I can explain all those things that happened.”

  “I’m sure you can. But I don’t think that I would be quite satisfied. There seems to be some evidence of deviltry.”

  “Reverend,” Nat said, trying to laugh, “you can’t be seriously thinking I’ve got some kind of special powers?”

  “I’m quite serious,” Harrelson said. “I’ve had my doubts about you ever since you got here. I suggest you ride out as fast as you can.”

  “I’m just waiting till I can buy a decent horse.”

  “Don’t wait too long. And don’t let me hear any more about this sort of thing. We will not stand for unrighteousness in these parts. I don’t have to tell you what we might do.”

  In Oak Bluffs and its surrounding region the fine days of late June gave way to an intensely hot summer. The sun rose and poured forth brassy heat from a cloudless sky. The nights were unrelieved by even the faintest stirring of air. On the northern and northeastern horizon storm clouds gathered, but never came to anything. The land baked under the sun, and the early crops gave sign of possible failure unless there was rain.

  Rain, that was what was needed! The farmers talked of nothing else. They discussed previous years, and no one could remember a worse summer since the terrible summer of ’79, or was it ’78?

  Josiah Thomas, a local farmer,
came over to visit, and he brought along Edgar Hartley, another farmer. They sat in the widow’s parlor and drank her tea and looked uncomfortable. Emma could see they had something on their minds, but she couldn’t guess what. It was stifling hot in the small, boxlike room. Even though Emma had hung up dampened sheets to give off a little coolness, it was barely perceptible in the still air.

  Nat Singer was down in the barnyard when Billy came out and said his mom wanted him to join the visitors. Nat cleaned up and came in. The two farmers talked to him for a while about this and that—where he’d come from, where he was going, what he thought about the new political campaign, his opinions on Indians, where he stood on the slavery issue. Finally they got down to the real purpose of their visit.

  “We have reason to believe,” Josiah said, “that you might be a rainmaker.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Nat asked.

  “There’s been talk about you having special powers ever since you dug out that new cesspool for Miz Hawkins. That was mighty skillful work, Mr. Singer, and uncommonly fast.”

  “I explained that,” Nat said. “It was a shift in the Earth’s crust. A very minor landslide. These very minor landslides do occur, you know. They just disturb one area and don’t touch another right next to it. Well, that’s what did it.”

  “Dug your cesspool for you,” Henry hazarded.

  “Yes, it did. And no one can prove different!”

  Josiah raised both hands in a gesture of placation. “Have it your own way! It’s none of our business! Oh, it’s true, there’d be some who’d take it hard on moral grounds if they thought a man was dealing with black magic and witchcraft. But if that man was working for the good of the community—why, then, even the most fanatic, like old Reverend Harrelson, would have to think a second time before trying to make anything of it.”

  Nat phrased his next statement carefully. “I would like to help the community, of course. But I am not a rainmaker, and you will never get me to admit I am. But I could try . . .”

  “That’s all we ask,” Josiah said. “Just try. But try it soon, acceptable, Mr. Singer?”

  Once he had made up his mind, Nat wasted no time. He went out late that afternoon, when the sunset was turning the western sky to a glory of purple and orange, he walked well away from the house, and found a quiet spot within a small stand of cottonberry trees. He quickly made his preparations, drew the pentagram, lighted a candle he had prepared previously, and called up the earth spirit.

  “You again?” the spirit asked.

  “Sorry to bother you so soon. But I need your help again.”

  “Am I never to have any peace around here?”

  “Stop complaining,” Nat said. “I happen to know that you elemental spirits sometimes go for decades without anyone calling on you to do anything.”

  “Sure, but are we free to turn our attention to something else? Not by a long shot! We have to always be on hand, standing by in case some character like you, with a couple of magic spells stolen from I don’t know where, wants us to do something he’s too lazy to do himself, or too unskillful.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Nat said. “Will you do what I require of you or do I need to lodge a complaint?” He began a series of gestures.

  “To hear is to obey,” the spirit said, without much enthusiasm. “What is it this time?”

  “Rain,” Nat said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, rain. A nice rainstorm. A goodly quantity of rain.”

  “Rain!” the spirit said. “I think I understand you now.”

  “Yes, rain, and please be quick about it.”

  “Oh, yes sir, you want rain quick? I can get it for you quick.” And the spirit vanished.

  Nat had a vague sense of dissatisfaction with the conversation. The spirit had seemed too pleased with himself over something. Should he have been more precise about what size rainstorm he wanted, and for how long? Surely one didn’t have to do that . . .

  But, as it turned out, that was precisely what he should have done. Because the storm came in minutes later with an impressive crash of thunder and skirmish of lightning, and it was the mother and the father and perhaps even the granddaddy of all storms seen in that area since men could remember. Afterwards there was argument over just where it had begun. Some said it had been brewed in the Great Lakes. Others claimed it blew in from the far Pacific. Wherever it came from, it was more like a tornado than a summer storm. The rain fell in sheets, and those sheets came down in long, slanted lines. It was an amazing display of water, and it drowned out over half of the farms in the neighborhood, beat in many roofs, tore down a lot of fences, and in general played merry hell with the course of life. The farmers got their rain, but they had to replant anyhow because the storm washed the seeds out of the earth. And when it was all done, Nat was something of a hero, but also under suspicion. For even though he denied having anything to do with the rainmaking, his denial carried more of a sense of complicity than any degree of assent would have done.

  The summer days wore on. Occasionally there were rumors of Indian war parties on the nearby frontier. A lot of tribes were on the move. It was said that the Comanche, displaced by pioneers entering Texas and beyond, were gathering on the Missouri-Kansas borders. Although the Comanche and Kiowa, fiercest of the plains fighters, made up most of the war parties, there were a lot of others as well: displaced Cheyenne and Sioux, disenfranchised Shoshone and Blackfoot. They had all come under the power of a single man, and this itself was an unprecedented event in the life of the Indians. This shaman was named Two Coyotes, and it was said that he was Kiowa-Apache. By all accounts he was a big man, barrel-chested, and well into middle age. He had a broad broken beak of a nose, a steel slab of a jaw. His eyes were dark, unblinking. It was said he could go into a trance and remain there for long hours, and in this trance he could travel to far places without his body, and could see the results of future actions.

  The Government expressed concern over Two Coyotes. But there was nothing to do about him. He hadn’t caused any trouble yet. And even if he did, short of an outright attack on a town or settlement, there was no law that said Indians couldn’t organize.

  These concerns were far from Nat’s mind, however. New Indian leaders were always coming up, holding forth for their little hour upon the stage of history, and then vanishing back into the shadows. There hadn’t been a strong Indian leader for a long time now. Everyone knew the Indians were too independent, too fragmented, to successfully organize against the white man. In this year of 1834 the tribes didn’t pose as much of a menace to a place like Oak Bluffs, Missouri, which had been settled country for more than fifteen years at this point.

  Nat was out in the field above the farm, ploughing a field with a team of mules which the widow had rented from the livery stable. It was another fine day. The mules plodded along, pulling the plough. Nat had trouble holding the thing steady. It would take him time to learn how to plough a straight furrow. But he was learning. There was a blackbird singing in the nearby bramblebush that afternoon. Was it trying to tell him something? What portent was it? Because the essence of magic is that suddenly a time comes when everything is a sign and a portent, but you don’t realize that until later.

  And so the blackbird’s song. And then the plough made an odd sound; it struck something solid. Something that was not stone. It was—wood? Nat stopped the team and got down into the furrow and began digging in the soil. The earth was sunbaked again. Nat took off his coat. He had to work hard to break up the clods and force the spade deeper into the soil. Funny, this was well-tilled soil, yet it resisted his spade. At last something seemed to give way, like a barrier crossed, and the digging became easier. As he scooped out a few more spadefuls, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Phew! There was something ancient here, and ugly, and evil.

  Nat straightened up, half-deciding to dig elsewhere. Then his expression hardened. There might be something wrong with this place, but he couldn’t walk aw
ay from it. That was the worst thing to do. The smell fascinated him at the same time as it repulsed him.

  He dug deeper, taking out the earth with increasingly careful movements so as not to break anything that might lie beneath. Soon he came to a bone, unmistakably human, its rounded end just peeking through the brown earth. Carefully sweeping around it with his hat, he uncovered more bones. And then something came into sight that took him a moment to recognize. It was a deer’s antlers, stained reddish-brown by the mineral-rich soil. A little further down he came upon a human skeleton, interpenetrated by the antlers so that the whole thing looked like a single chimerical beast, a deer-man or a man-deer.

  Nat bent low over this thing, and the bad smell came up to strike him. He was frozen for a moment in fascinated horror that was almost pleasurable. Then he tried to straighten up, but was pulled short by something attached to the skeleton in the shallow grave. He realized later that it was his neckerchief, which had caught in the creature’s bones. He tried to pull free, but the bones resisted. He tried harder. The neckerchief would not break loose. Instead his pull brought the entire skeleton to an upright sitting posture, the skull grinning into his face, the antlers rearing above the ruined head. Nat became aware in that moment that something was not so much attacking him as playing with him. He wrenched the neckerchief free, and with a blow broke the skeleton apart, bones scattering every which way, the skull rolling to his feet. Moved by some obscure compulsion, he picked up the skull and put it back with the rest of the bones.