The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Once more the vision came back to him. The strands of smoke wrapped into a braid of red rope that turned and coiled and lengthened into a human form. The head assumed the clearly etched lines of a girl’s face, framed in a flamboyant butterfly head-dress of green and white feathers.

  The girl’s languid arms reached out to strum the strings of a huge golden harp.

  Breathlessly Hobart watched. He had never seen the beautiful Venzita face to face, but the newspapers had often carried her pictures. There was no mistaking the loveliness of her face and figure, the enchanting grace with which her long slender fingers stroked the strings of the harp.

  But suddenly the harp was not there, only the strings. What was this astonishing change?

  Now the strings hung from her fingers, swung low to support the weights that were—what? Men? No, puppets!

  Yes, two or three puppets dangled from each hand, and the girl manipulated the strings deftly, gracefully, with an ease that lent something of rapture to her manner. The puppets were magistrates!

  Hobart looked from one to another of the doll-like figures. There was Mozambique. Here was Samos. There, Nicholas, Botticelli, Alboin . . . Now Mozambique had changed into Wyatt, Samos had melted away and in his place hung Ponchar. It was a veritable roll call of the magistrates! Eleven—twelve —thirteen of them, now fourteen.

  Every magistrate but Van Hise and one other had appeared. And now the other came. Only Van Hise remained to come—or was he dead? Would the sixteenth puppet be Van Hise—or Hobart?

  Hobart leaped up, shook off the blur before his eyes, slapped his own cheeks to bring himself out of the torpor. He bent down, seized his shoes, stormed out the rear door, hissing to himself, “She’ll never get me! Never!”

  Janetto hurried after him. “But did you see a significant vision, my friend?”

  “I did!” Hobart retorted, slipping his feet into his shoes and hurrying on. He crossed through the marble hallway. In a quick glance to one side he saw the girl he had just seen in the vision—tall, langurous, unspeakably beautiful as she turned to look at him, her wealth of red hair sweeping against the white marble pillar. He caught up the tray of glasses and directed his footsteps straight toward the little arched footbridge that crossed high over the street to the capital building.

  CHAPTER IV

  Another Temple

  Venzita sauntered through the hallway to meet Janetto.

  “Who was that?”

  “A capital attendant,” Janetto answered. “Did you have a good nap, my dear?”

  “What was his name?”

  “Probably Francisco or William or— no, on second thought, it was Hobart. What, more flowers, my dear?” Janetto cast a sour eye upon the mass of floral decorations that flanked the stage in the music room. “I wish to repeat my request—that you ask your magistrate friends to send more jewelry and fewer flowers.”

  “Hobart,” Venzita mused. “He was rather handsome.”

  “Flowers are here today and gone tomorrow. Jewels—”

  “It’s a shame he’s only attendant. I think he should have a promotion. I’ll speak to one of the magistrates.”

  “Venzita, come here. I want to talk with you.” He directed the motored wheel-chair to an open roof-porch that overlooked the capital grounds. Venzita shrugged her shoulders and strolled after him.

  “Look, Venzita. What do you see out there?”

  Venzita laughed. She saw the city, of course. What was he getting at? She saw the capitol grounds, and the new post-war apartments and skyscrapers, and the extensive post-war groves and orchards loaded down with fruit and clusters of Rag Birds, and the business streets rumbling with cars and trucks, and the city walls out at the edges.

  “That’s ours,” said Janetto with a low satisfied chuckle. “All ours—if we work it right.”

  “You’re doing pretty well,” said Venzita cynically.

  “We’ve got these magistrates in the hollow of our hands and that’s where we’ll keep them. We must never for one minute let down or they’ll lose interest.”

  “You’re not worried about something, are you, Albert?”

  Worried? Albert Janetto never dared admit it to her but he was deathly worried every time she asked the name of some handsome man who happened to pass their way. “No, not worried,” he said dryly.

  She studied his mysterious old face, the deep eyes that burned with untold secret motives. She laughed. “You can’t be worried Not after the magistrates have erected a million dollar temple to your arts! You’re a part of the government now. They’ll never let you go. Even if I should leave you some day, you’re here—fixed—just like that capitol building!”

  Janetto caught her hand, held it with a curious tenseness that made her grow thoughtful. She looked down at the gnarled old fingers and let her eyes rest on the brilliant topaz ring that reflected her face in miniature.

  “Venzita!” he uttered the name in a whisper that was half reverence, half fear. “Don’t ever dream of leaving! Don’t even let yourself think of such a thing!”

  Venzita drew her hand away and strolled along the portico. Janetto had never ceased to be a mystery to her. Didn’t he realize that she had some purpose of her own?

  He followed after her. “My dear, can’t you forget that you began working for me simply as a hired musician? Hasn’t my treatment of you proved that you are more than an employee?”

  “You’ve always been very kind to me, Janetto. I hope I’ve never complained—”

  “But don’t you see, you’re a part of the institution—an important part. Your music and your beauty have created the atmosphere necessary for our success. If you ever left me—”

  “You’d get another musician—probably a better one.”

  “No! No! No!” Janetto fairly shrieked. “I’m trying to tell you this temple belongs to you as well as me. All these gifts—jewels, money, cars, precious stones—they’re ours jointly! Can’t I make you understand?”

  “No, you old funny face, you’d just as well save your breath.” Venzita stalked away from him, then turned when she heard him speeding after her in his wheel-chair. “If I have to tell you fifty more times, I’ll say the same thing, Albert.”

  She stopped his wheel-chair with her foot, took his two crusty old hands in hers. “When you rolled out into the sticks a few years ago and told me there was a job waiting for me, I took it as a business proposition. You said my pay would be plenty of good food, fine clothes, a decent place to live, all the music lessons I wanted and all the protection I needed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, that bargain still stands. My job is to furnish music for your customers. I don’t intend to walk out on that job—at least not right away. I’m having too much fun. I’ve just learned to play that new harp in tune. So there, grandpa!”

  She laughed in Janetto’s face and waited for the twinkle to light his mysterious dark eyes. It was slow coming.

  “You won’t fall in love with any of these magistrates, Venzita?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Or anyone else?”

  “You know no one’s going to break through the defenses you’ve built!” Janetto’s complacent smile returned. Then his sharp-bearded chin gave a dogged thrust. “And you will request jewelry instead of flowers?”

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind!” Venzita said flatly—not with venom, simply with frank decision. “If they want to act like fools and throw their wealth at my feet, it’s yours to pick up. I won’t touch it!”

  Janetto countered with a hurt face. He let his head fall, and touched his outspread fingers to his brow, flicking a cunning glance from under his heavy eyebrows.

  The girl repeated, “I won’t touch it, Albert. Not even for you—much as I love you.”

  Then she marched away from him murmuring to herself. “Or do I? Sometimes I wonder. . .”

  CHAPTER V

  Hobart’s Future Comes True

  Though the brisk old magistrate Van Hi
se was well up in years, no one guessed that he had only a few more months to live.

  One night he died—quite suddenly— after a too hearty dinner in the capital dining room.

  Three weeks later the capital and surrounding countryside were agog to learn that a young man named Hobart had been appointed to the vacancy.

  Qualified? Yes, indeed!

  In the first place he was experienced in capital affairs. In recent weeks he had run through a startling series of promotions, from attendant to Assistant Administrator of Expenditures. His rapid rise was almost unaccountable. But, as the newspapers blandly noted, he was a favorite of the influential Mozambique, who had often mentioned to the charming musician Venzita, that this energetic young man deserved a chance.

  Moreover, Hobart was especially qualified to fill Van Hise’s shoes. By some strange coincident Hobart had done extensive studies along the lines of Van Hise’s legislative specialties.

  Finally, Hobart was a hero, riding the crest of popularity. He was the brave man who had dared to disperse the mob of Rag Birds when they tried to march, a thousand strong, up the steps of the capital building.

  That dash of boldness had made banner headlines and sensational news-movies. Before the capital guards had lifted a hand, Hobart had appeared on the capital portico at the top of the hundred broad steps the mobsters were ascending, and stirred up an argument with them through the medium of a small powerful machine gun that chanced to be in his hands.

  The Rag Birds had scattered and taken flight, and those that were too slow about it were carted away to visit hospitals or mortuaries. And a few of the leaders were induced to pay respects to the hangman. All of which made Hobart’s popularity skyrocket. For there were far too many Rag Birds, as every respected and affluent citizen knew, and a busier hangman would mean a more beautiful city.

  Hobart was made a magistrate.

  Mozambique pinned the badge on him. Samos, Nicholas and Botticelli made speeches. Janetto delivered an address from his wheel-chair. And there was entrancing harp music the rest of the evening, interspersed with toasts and lively conversation.

  “Our City of Beauty is a torchlight in the new age of darkness,” a newspaper editorialized. “This man Hobart, like the old go-getters of many decades ago, has risen from the ranks to a position of supreme importance. What Hobart has done, any citizen of this fair city could do—if he only had the will. Yes, even a Rag Bird, if he were determined enough!”

  Clusters of Rag Birds laughed and laughed when they found that one in the newspaper.

  “Imagine us,” they hooted, “being made magistrates. What a hell of a sight we’d make, sitting around in the capital building throwing away money and listening to vampires play on harps! Ye gods, they’re killing us!” One lean-faced young Rag Bird scratched his shaggy head thoughtfully. “A Rag Bird could get to be a magistrate if he wanted to bad enough.” He munched an apple authoritatively.

  “Listen at that! Rustan’s off again!” one of the cluster shouted.

  “But he could. I’d bet my neck on it!” Rustan said, spitting out an apple seed.

  “You’d lose your neck if you tried,” retorted a heap of rags, climbing up the tree to sit in on the argument. “The only way a Rag Bird’d have a chance with those big shots would be for him to shoot down some other Rag Birds.”

  “Sure,” someone else chimed in, munching on a piece of bark. “That’s how that damned Hobart made the grade—by killing some of us off, and getting Plank and some others hanged.”

  “Plank was my friend as much as yours,” Rustan said stubbornly, “but he was a fool to lead a mob up the capital steps. I tried to warn him and he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I s’pose if you’d have been a magistrate you’d have had him hanged, same as Hobart did.”

  “I probably would have,” said Rustan thoughtfully, “They’ve got it figured out that there’s too many of us. I think they’re right.”

  “Listen at him talk! Don’t argue with him, the damned contrary mule.”

  “If there’s too many of us, why the hell don’t the government do something about us?”

  “Why should it?” said Rustan. “We never do anything about ourselves. We’re satisfied to sit in the trees and throw apple-cores at the people that pass, aren’t we?”

  The conversation was interrupted by a fight over an apple. Arguments were good but fights were always better. The surrounding trees poured out their occupants to gather around the dust storm where two Rag Birds had fallen and were going at each other with fists and claws.

  Later, when the dust had cleared and the contestants were busy tying up their torn clothes and some rude third party was contentedly munching the prize they had fought over, Rustan’s argument came back into the limelight. One of his contentious friends had a snarl left over from the previous talk.

  “If you’re so damned sure of yourself, Rustan, why don’t you turn yourself into a magistrate?”

  “Haw! Haw!” Rustan retorted dryly. “You think I’d crawl down from my perch to grovel on my hands and knees before a pretty girl—the way a magistrate does? You couldn’t hire me!”

  “Sour grapes!”

  “What I mean, she’s got every one of those magistrates on a toboggan,” Rustan grinned. He lay back on the branch, hands locked behind his head, and gazed up into the sky. “She’s an enchantress, that’s what she is. Every man that comes her way is her slave. It was a lucky day for me that she walked out on me.”

  “You know Venzita?” Four of them asked the question at once.

  “I used to know her, when her name was Mary.” Rustan chuckled bitterly. “But don’t worry, boys, I’ll never know her again!”

  CHAPTER VI

  Mozambique Meets His Master

  The money was ready. The plans were complete. Every single magistrate was ready to go ahead with the gigantic project—except—Hobart.

  Mozambique led him by the arm past the walls of blueprints. This new three-million-dollar edifice would make the City of Beauty the most renowned of all the continent’s capitals—the leader of culture in an age of darkness.

  “You’re too practical, Hobart. You haven’t the proper appreciation of beauty. Now you take Magistrate Samos. At first he was dubious, like you—”

  “I know,” said Hobart. “He went to tell that damned little wizard Janetto about his doubts, had a sparkling conversation with Venzita, and came back insisting that another wing be added to the original plan.”

  “Consider the case of Wyatt,” said Mozambique. “He is one of our most conservative magistrates, and yet—”

  “I know about Wyatt,” Hobart retorted. “He attended a banquet with Venzita and her mystic grandpa and came back with big ideas about adding an Italian garden with fountains and a ceiling of artificial stars.”

  “All these men are cautious about dipping into the city’s treasury—except for the worthiest of purposes.”

  “Puppets!” Hobart muttered. “Simply puppets.”

  “Magistrate Alboin was hesitant at first. He objected to clearing the business streets and four blocks of apartments for the site. But after he discovered how the buildings were aging—”

  “And how beautiful Venzita looked in that new gown that’s three-fourths sapphires—he saw the light.”

  “He saw the light!” Mozambique cleared his throat. He was getting nowhere. The other magistrates were impatient with him because he had failed to swing his young protégé into line.

  “Did it ever occur to you, Mozambique, that this girl has turned the whole bunch of you into spineless jellyfish?” Ignoring the remark, Mozambique flopped into a chair and beat his fists on the arms. “What are we going to do with you, Hobart?” he cried in exasperation. “We can’t quit at a Temple of Visions. We’ve got to go on—build a Temple of Music—eventually a Temple of Art. Why the devil can’t you give us your vote, so we can go ahead?”

  “Save your voice,” Hobart growled. “You need a unanimous vote. I’m voting agai
nst you. You’re stymied, that’s all.” Then with a note of sarcasm, he added. “If you’re so wrought up about it why don’t you and the other magistrates go to Doc Janetto and get a vision and see what can be done?”

  “No good.”

  “A million-dollar Temple of Visions no good?”

  “You know what I mean.” Mozambique mopped the perspiration from his baked-apple nose and his pancake ears. “Not one of us fifteen magistrates can go to Janetto now. Not until we’ve voted the appropriation. We can’t face Venzita. Every damned magistrate has promised her he’s railroading this Temple of Music through as a special private favor to her.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Mozam! Nice business!”

  “Shut your head and let me think.”

  Which was as far as Mozambique could get during the next twenty-four hours. He came up before the assembled magistrates with plenty of perspiration but no inspiration.

  “We’ll take one more vote,” he said in a voice that tolled the death of his dream of culture.

  They cast their ballots. The count was the same as before—fifteen for, one against.

  “That settles it,” said Mozambique. “The Temple of Music is lost.”

  “I move,” said one of the magistrates, “that Hobart be delegated to convey this news to our official court musician, Venzita.”

  “I gladly volunteer,” Hobart snapped contemptuously.

  A crash of glass brought the magistrates to their feet. Stones burst through the windows and glanced off their conference table. The magistrates scurried back to the walls and columns for protection, and Hobart reached for a pistol.

  “Hold it!” shouted one of the guards from outside the window. “We’ve got ’em! Damned Rag Birds!”

  A clatter of head-beatings and fist-poundings filled the air for half a minute, then the voices of the guards took complete charge. Above the clodding of feet of those Rag Birds making their get-away, the sharp orders of the guards barked out. “In there, you! You’ll hang for this. And you, too, Wobbles. But this guy—he’s the one that tried to stop them. Send him in for a talk. We can do some good with him.”