by C. L. Moore
Monk threw away his gun and took out a long-bladed knife. Tarbell had always been afraid of that knife. He tried to look through the phantom, but Monk was visibly, if not tangibly, real. Maybe he was tangible, after all. Bullets were one matter. Ghost bullets. A knife was another, somehow. Blue firelight rippled up the blade.
Tarbell didn't want even an intangible knife slicing at his throat. He was scared now. His heart was pounding violently. He hastily took out his automatic and said hoarsely, "Turn it off, Gwinn. Quick!"
He couldn't see Gwinn, because the room was very dark, and Monk was plunging forward, laughing, the knife driving up viciously. Tarbell chewed his lip, gave back a step, and fired. Instantly he regretted the weakness.
He regretted it even more as Monk vanished, and he saw Gwinn slumped in his chair, the top of his head blown off.
The magician's eyes were wide open, but unseeing. Tarbell stood quite motionless for several minutes breathing hard. Then he shoved the gun back in his pocket, stepped forward, and picked up the brown book from the table. He didn't touch the body. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the doorknobs as he went out of the house, and, standing in the friendly darkness, he found the whiskey bottle in his coat and drank deeply. It helped.
"But I couldn't—" he said aloud, and broke off, with a quick glance around. Nothing stirred.
Except the cat. The cat came out of the shadows and looked at Tarbell with luminous green eyes.
"There's still revenge," it said, waving its tail. "And I'm a particularly nasty sort of familiar. I was fond of Baldy. Run along, Sam Tarbell. You won't get into any trouble with the police. But you'll get into trouble with me—and my friends. It'll be harder, since you've got the book, but I'll manage." It yawned, flicking a pink tongue at Tarbell.
The reporter thought of posthypnosis, and slowly drew his automatic. The cat went away, with the magic peculiar to cats. Tarbell nodded and descended the steps, getting into his car and starting the motor with a nervous jerk.
It was awkward turning the car around on the narrow, winding road, but he managed it without too much difficulty. Going down the canyon in second gear, Tarbell kept his eyes on the black center line and thought hard. Murder. First-degree, at that. But there was no evidence.
He chewed his lip. He was getting shaky, firing at shadows. Unfortunate that Gwinn happened to be behind that particular shadow. Still—.
Still, it couldn't be helped, and the worst possible thing to do was brood about it. Much better to shove the incident to the back of his mind. Hell, in the old days in Chicago murder hadn't meant much. Why should it mean anything now?
Nevertheless, it did. Tarbell had always taken pains to keep his skirts clear of messes. By a natural trick of compensation, he had come to regard his blackmailing activities with tolerant satisfaction. In this world, the race was to the swift. A slow horse was handicapped—unless he got the needle. A man smart enough to use a hypo stimulant wasn't necessarily a rat, except according to narrow standards, which did not concern Tarbell.
If you were clever enough to get your hands on smart money, that was all to the good. And it was far, far better than living on a reporter's salary alone.
But Tarbell was shaken. "Self-defense," he said under his breath, and lit a cigarette, illegal in this fire-hazard area. He put it out immediately. It wouldn't do to be stopped by an officer.
A giant stood threateningly, in the glare of the headlights, gnarled and menacing. Tarbell wrenched at the wheel in sudden panic. It was nothing but an oak; just the same, the illusion was frightening. Briefly Tarbell had seen the huge face of a hag peering at him, loose mouth writhing, eyes flaming green—
It was gone now, but the aftertaste of fear was sour in Tarbell's mouth. He turned the car into a side road and parked, staring at nothing. Not so good. He couldn't afford hysteria.
He drank whiskey, shuddered, and wiped his lips with his hand. It was trembling a little. Tarbell lay back and breathed deeply, his eyes closed. He'd be all right in a minute. The canyon road was steep and winding, and he preferred not to risk it till his hands stopped shaking.
Meantime, he remembered Gwinn's diary. It lay on the seat beside him, a flat brown volume rather smaller than an octavo, and Tarbell picked it up, switching on the overhead light.
Oddly enough, the gold script on the front said, "Samuel Tarbell."
Tarbell looked at that for a long time. He touched the white oval with an exploratory finger. It was smooth and glossy—parchment, perhaps. Finally he opened the book at random. The page number—17—in the upper right-hand corner was in large block numerals, and there was only one sentence, in crude type that seemed hand set. It said:
"Werewolves can't climb oak trees."
Tarbell read it again. It still said the same thing. Frowning, he turned the page.
"He's bluffing."
That was all—two words. Cryptic, to say the least. Obviously, this wasn't Gwinn's diary. It was more like Finnegans Wake.
Tarbell flipped the pages. Page 25 said:
"Try the windshield."
Page 26 said:
"Declare the truth and fear no man." A few pages later, Tarbell found this: "Deny everything."
There were other ambiguous comments: "Don't worry about poor crops," "Aim at his eye," "Don't speak till you're back on earth," and "Try again." As a collection of aphorisms, the book was more than a little cryptic. But Tarbell had a queer feeling that he was on the verge of a mystery—an important one, somehow. Only he couldn't find the key.
The hell with it. Gwinn was a screwball. This volume meant nothing. Or—.
It was growing chilly. Tarbell, with a wry mouth, dropped the book on the seat beside him and started the engine. The one inexplicable thing was the discovery of his name on the volume's brown cover. Previously it had had Gwinn's name—or had it? Thinking back, he wasn't quite certain. At any rate, the doubt was comforting.
He backed the car, turned, and drove on down the canyon, branching into Laurel, the main thoroughfare. As usual, there was plenty of traffic, since the road was a short cut between Hollywood and the Valley.
The accident came not quite without warning. On the left of the road was a gully; on the right, an overhanging tree. The headlights picked out something definitely abnormal about that tree. For the second time Tarbell saw the gray, rugose, sagging face of a hag, toothless mouth agape in a grin, the deformed head nodding as though in encouragement. He was quite certain that, mingled somehow with the trunk and branches, was the monstrous figure of a woman. The tree had become anthropomorphic. It was wrenching, straining, hunching its heavy shoulders as it swayed and lurched toward the road—
It fell. Tarbell caught his breath and jammed his foot down on the accelerator, swinging the car to the left. The cold motor stuttered hesitantly, without gaining speed, and that was unfortunate. The tree crashed down, and a heavy branch seemed to thrust itself under the wheels. Tires blew out with sickening bangs. The breath-stopping sickness of imminent danger froze Tarbell into paralysis as the coupé went over the curb, toppling, skidding down, turning over and over till it came to rest on its side.
Tarbell's head rang like a bell; white flashes of pain lanced through it. He was jammed awkwardly behind the steering wheel, which, luckily, had not snapped off. He had avoided impalement, at any rate. He reached fumblingly for the key to snap off the ignition, but a flicker of fire told him he was too late.
The car was ablaze.
Painfully Tarbell tried to right himself. The shatterproof glass had not broken, and he thrust upward against the door, now above his head. It was jammed. He could see stars through the glass, and a coiling veil of thin smoke that partly obscured them. A reddening glow grew brighter. When the fire reached the gas tank—
He heard distant shouts. Help was coming, but probably it would not come in time. With a choking cry Tarbell strained up against the door; he could not budge it. If he could break the glass—
He sought for a tool. There was
none. The dashboard compartment was jammed, and, in his awkward position, he could not remove a shoe to hammer against the glass. The acrid smell grew stronger. Red light flickered.
The sharp corner of something was jammed against his side, and Tarbell, hoping it might be a loose bit of metal heavy enough to serve his purpose, clutched at it. He found himself staring at the book. The white circle on the cover was luminous, and traced darkly against the whiteness were two Arabic numerals:
25
-
The need for self-preservation sharpens the faculties. It was instinct that brought vividly to Tarbell the memory of what he had read on Page 25 of the book. The enigma of the message was suddenly elucidated.
"Try the windshield."
Tarbell thrust at the long plate glass with his palm, and the windshield fell out. A breath of cool air blew in against his sweating face. The crackling of flames was very loud now.
He kept a tight grip on the book as he wormed his way through the gap, skinning his shin rather badly; and he ran down the gully, gasping for breath, till the red firelight had faded. A booming roar told him the gas tank had exploded. Tarbell sat down, feeling weak, and looked at the book. It was an oblong, darker shadow in the faint moonlight.
"My God," he said.
After a while he put the book in a pocket of his tattered topcoat and clambered out of the gully. Cars were parked along the curb, and men were moving about, using flashlights. Tarbell walked back toward the crowd.
He was conscious of irritation at the impending scene. The only thing he wanted, just now, was a chance to examine the book privately. There was a point at which skepticism stopped. Tarbell had run up against enough news curiosa in the past to retain a certain amount of credulity. The whole thing might be merely a coincidence—but he didn't think so.
There was a confusion of questioning, loud, rather pointless conversation, and assurances, on Tarbell's part, that he was unhurt. With an officer, he went to a near-by house and telephoned his insurance company. Meanwhile a taxi had been summoned.
Tarbell ordered the cabman to stop in Hollywood at a convenient bar, where he gulped several whiskey sours and fingered the book in his pocket. He didn't quite dare to examine it there, however, and, in any case, the lighting was indirect—perhaps on the questionable principle that people seldom appear at their best when they are tight. Replenished and conscious of a mounting excitement, Tarbell reached his Wilshire apartment at last, closed the door behind him, and switched on the light.
He stood motionless for a time, just looking around. Then he went to a couch, lit a reading lamp, and took the brown volume from his pocket.
The inset white disk on the front cover was blank. His own name scrawled in gilt lettering against the dull brown cloth. He turned to Page 25. It said, "Try the windshield."
Tarbell closed the book and opened it at the flyleaf, which was blank. The next page was more interesting. In the familiar hand type, his own name leaped up at him.
-
Dear Mr. Tarbell:
By this time, you may already have discovered the peculiar qualities of this grimoire. Its powers are limited, and only ten page references are allotted to each owner. Use them with discrimination.
Compliments of the author.
-
Cryptic—but significant! Tarbell looked up grimoire, but the word wasn't in his dictionary. It meant a book of magic, he remembered rather vaguely, a collection of spells.
Thoughtfully he flipped the book's pages again. Spells? Advice, rather. Certainly the advice about the coupé's windshield had come in very handy.
Tarbell's lips tightened in a crooked smile. One advantage of the accident: he had forgotten to be worried by the murder! Maybe that wasn't so good. If the police grew suspicious—But there was no reason why they should be. His presence in Laurel Canyon was easily explained; the boulevard was a well-traveled thoroughfare. And Gwinn's body might not be discovered for days, in that isolated section.
He stood up, stripping off the ragged overcoat and tossing it aside with a gesture of distaste. Tarbell liked clothes, with an almost sensuous feeling. He went into the bathroom to start the shower, and came back instantly, followed by the beginnings of steam clouds. He picked up the book from the couch.
It lay on a stand as he bathed and donned pajamas and a robe. It was in his hand as he slippered back into the living room, and his gaze was upon it as he mixed himself a drink. It was stiff and, as he sipped the whiskey, Tarbell felt a warm, restful languor beginning to seep into his mind and body. Till this moment he had not realized how jangled were his nerves.
Now, leaning back, he pondered on the book. Magic? Were there such things? He thumbed through the pages again, but the printed lines had not altered in the least. Extraordinary, and quite illogical, how that message about the windshield had saved his life. The other pages—most of them bore sentences wild to the point of lunacy. "Werewolves can't climb oak trees." So what?
-
Tarbell fixed himself another drink. He was going somewhat beyond his capacity tonight, for fairly obvious reasons. But he didn't show it, except for a glisten of perspiration on his high, tanned forehead.
"This should develop into something interesting," a soft voice said.
It was the cat. Fat, glossy, and handsome, it sat on a chair opposite Tarbell, watching the man with enigmatic eyes. The mobile mouth and tongue of a cat, he thought, were well suited for human speech.
The cat rippled its shoulder muscles. "Do you still think this is ventriloquism?" it asked. "Or have you progressed to hallucinations?"
Tarbell stood up, walked across the room, and slowly extended his hand. "I'd like to make certain you're real," he said. "May I—"
"Gently. Don't try any tricks. My claws are sharp, and my magic's sharper."
Satisfied by the feel of the warm fur, Tarbell drew back and looked down consideringly at the creature. "All right," he said, his voice a little thick. "We've progressed this far, anyhow. I'm talking to you—admitting your existence. Fair enough."
The cat nodded. "True. I came here to congratulate you on escaping the dryad, and to tell you I'm not discouraged."
Tarbell sat down again. "Dryad, eh? I always thought dryads were pretty. Like nymphs."
"Fairy tales," the cat said succinctly. "The Grecian equivalent of yellow journalism. Satyrs only made love to young deciduous dryads, my friend. The older ones ... well! You may be able to imagine what the dryad of a California sequoia would be like."
"I think so."
"Well, you're wrong. The older an anthropomorphic being grows, the less rigidly the dividing lines are drawn. Ever notice the sexlessness of old human? They die, of course, before they progress further than that. Eventually the line between human being and god is lost, then between human being and animal, and between animal and plant. Finally there's a commingling of sentient clay. Beyond that you'd not care to go. But the sequoia dryads have gone beyond it." The cat eyes watched, alert and inscrutable. Tarbell sensed some definite purpose behind this conversation. He waited.
"My name, by the way, is Meg," the cat said.
"Female, I presume?"
"In this incarnation. Familiars in their natural habitat are sexless. When aliens manifest themselves on earth, they're limited by terrestrial laws—to a certain extent, anyway. You may have noticed that nobody saw the dryad but you."
"There wasn't anybody else around."
"Exactly," Meg said, with an air of satisfaction.
Tarbell considered, conscious more than ever that he was dueling with the creature. "O.K.," he nodded. "Now let's get down to cases. You were Gwinn's ... eh? ... familiar. What does that imply?"
"I served him. A familiar, Tarbell, serves a wizard as a catalyst."
"Come again."
"Catalysis: a chemic reaction promoted by the presence of a third unaffected substance. Read 'magic' for 'chemic.' Take cane sugar and water, add sulphuric acid, and you get glucose and levulose. Take a penta
gram and ox blood, add me, and you get a demon named Pharnegar. He's the dowser god," Meg added. "Comes in handy for locating hidden treasures, but he has his limitations."
-
Tarbell thought that over. It seemed logical. All through the centuries, folklore had spoken of the warlock's familiar. What purpose the creature had served was problematical. A glorified demoniac valet? Rather silly.
A catalyst was much more acceptable, somehow, especially to poor Tarbell's alcohol-distorted brain.
"It seems to me we might make a bargain," he said, staring at Meg. "You're out of a job now, aren't you? Well, I could use a little magical knowledge."
"Fat chance," the cat said scornfully. "Do you think for a minute magic can be mastered by a correspondence course? It's like any highly trained profession. You have to learn how to handle the precision tools, how to train your insight, how to—My master, Tarbell, it's something more than a university course! It takes a natural linguist to handle the spells. And trained, whiplash responses. A perfect sense of timing. Gwinn took the course for twenty-three years before he got his goatskin. And, of course, there's the initial formality of the fee."
Tarbell grunted. "You know magic, apparently. Why can't you—"
"Because," Meg said very softly, "you killed Gwinn. I won't outlast him. And I had been looking forward to a decade or two more on Earth. In this plane, I'm free from certain painful duties that are mine elsewhere."
"Hell?"
"Anthropomorphically speaking, less. But your idea of Hell isn't mine. Which is natural, since in my normal state my senses aren't the same as yours."
Meg jumped down from the chair and began to wander around the room. Tarbell watched it—her—closely. His hand felt for and clutched the book.
The cat said, "This will be an interesting game of wits. The book will give you considerable help—but I have my magic."
"You're determined to—to kill me?" Tarbell reached for his topcoat. "Why?"
"I told you. Revenge."
