The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Bones,” said Loonza, giving a little start.

  “Bones,” I said, and remembering the wink of Zober, the Paint-Face, I winked at her.

  “What does a wink mean where you came from?”

  I regarded her with interest. “I’ll bet you used to ask my brother the same question.”

  “I did,” she admitted.

  “What kind of answer did he give?”

  “He winked at me.”

  “That was my brother, all right,” I said. I wanted to ask her a thousand questions about him—how he and his party had established their camp, and what effort they had made to reach the authorities here, and how much he had confided to her about the ghagstic wealth that our great-grandfather Freeman had found here.

  But Loonza always became wistful and a little sad when I brought up the subject. She had a broken heart, and yours truly, George Freeman, hadn’t succeeded in easing the pain for her.

  “You say a wink means lots of things?” she asked. “When you pointed to these bones in the window you winked. Why?”

  “Why?” I shrugged. “Just because—well, you can see for yourself the chance we’re taking. I mean, we both understand: Just now we’re safe, but we know it can’t last. If we’d get caught, who knows—our bones might fill some new window. So I winked—because we both understand. Now—do you see?”

  She gulped. “One wink means all that?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “It’s an awful lot of meaning for one little wink.”

  “That’s why you wink,” I said. “It’s more meaning than you have time to put into words, so—”

  “Your brother once told me that on earth everybody winks, more or less.”

  “Certainly—that is, if the occasion arises.”

  “It must be dreadful,” she said, and nestled closer to me as if visualizing a world of dangers.

  “Dreadful—why?”

  “Everybody going around snapping an eyelid at everybody else to tell them that if they don’t look out their bones will be used far bars across a window.”

  “Now, Loonza!”

  “Well, you said—”

  “There’s only one answer to that, and here it is.” I winked at her and her eyes widened and she shrugged, as if completely bewildered.

  “What did that wink mean?”

  “It meant that you and I know that you’re teasing me, trying to pretend that all winks apply to these gruesome things.” I tapped one of the chalky femurs. “Do you understand? A wink doesn’t apply just to these.”

  “Sure, I understand. It could apply to your ribs, too, couldn’t it?” And she clinched the point by giving me a wink. A painfully artificial wink.

  Exasperating, to say the least. “Listen, woman, I’m trying to tell you that a wink means we understand! See, we understand.”

  “Any kind of bones, then?” Loonza asked, smiling hopefully. “Not just these?” She tapped one of the window bars and it fell in.

  For two minutes we hardly breathed. The bone had clattered to a floor. Evidently no one had heard. The occupants of the tower were two or three floors above us. The room had an awfully empty sound. We removed another bone with care. I crawled into the window and helped Loonza, and a moment later we were slipping through the dark hallways of the Mong’s private home.

  CHAPTER XI

  A bowl of water hornets could be seen through a mirror beyond the landing at the head of the stairs. Loonza caught my hand and we held back, watching.

  She whispered, “Don’t frighten them.”

  We could hear the shuffling footsteps of someone in the room beyond. We were on dangerous ground, and a little thing like the sudden darting of water hornets in a bowl might easily give us away.

  But we moved on cautiously until we reached the draperies that hung from an arch beyond the top of the stairs. With every step I watched to see whether those fifteen or twenty black spike-shaped hornets were going to jump with fright.

  “That’s funny,” I whispered. “The darned things ignore us. They keep pointing in one direction.”

  “They’re turning,” Loonza said. “Look.”

  The footsteps of the old man could be heard passing through the next room. They were watching him. They turned like so many compass needles.

  “There’s another bowl of them in the other room,” Loonza observed under her breath. “The Mong must like them for pets.”

  I watched the more distant bowl, and by George, they were also turning like compass needles.

  “It’s an easy way to tell where the Mong is,” I whispered. “Look!”

  Then he came into view—the great Mong himself. The aged shuffling walk didn’t begin to express the age of the subject passing before our eyes.

  Aged? He made you think of a gnarled, warped, barkless old tree on the timberline of a windswept mountain. That’s how he looked: an image carved out of weatherbeaten wood, all cracked and shredded and ready to shatter and decay. But his walk was proof that he was alive, and his eyes were still burning with a curious intensity—too bright, I thought. Bright with evil. An insane brightness that spoke of torture and sadistic delights and murder.

  Loonza must have seen him as I did. She caught her breath, and her hand clutched my fingers tightly.

  “Ha!” the little bent old man said. It was an evil cackle, and sort of dry, rattling voice that nutshells might make if they could speak. His single word directed toward the black water hornets who appeared to respond to his taunt. They struck at him and bumpqd their noses against the bowl. His bent shoulders hunched deeper and he gave another taunting “Ha!”

  His garment was hardly what one would expect of a king or an emperor on dress parade; he was dressed only for comfort. Loonza believed he hadn’t displayed himself among the people of the Crimson Sea for several years. It was enough that he should be seen, from time to time, on the balcony of the Twisted Arm. His garments were a grey and blue robe and soft slippers of finely spun sea-plant fibers. His sleeves hung loosely, revealing the thin brown wrinkled arms. His hands were more like claws than human hands, and his crooked fingernails reminded one of a buzzard’s talons.

  Now he was rattling away in a disjointed conversation that was obviously for the benefit of the water hornets.

  “Ha! Snap at me, you leetle black devils. Can’t you snap any harder? Ha! You never tire of leaping at evil things, do you? Break your heads against the glass. I’m your magnet, you leetle darts of poison. Not in the whole ocean will you find anyone else worth snapping at.”

  Loonza nudged me. She had evidently heard the legend of the hornets’ attraction before; now she was seeing it illustrated all too plainly.

  So they would spend their evil selves against objects of evil! I recalled the time that they had attacked David Pemberton like a volley of bullets. But at the time I hadn’t guessed—“You think I am evil, you leetle black monsters? Give me another ten years. Another twenty. Ha! Give me fifty years, and I’ll fill myself with such evil that you’ll smash your brainless heads every time I pass you. You think I’m already evil enough? Ha! Give me another twenty years . . .”

  His monologue trailed off into incomprehensible muttering. Other footsteps were sounding from the balcony stairs. Someone was descending. The traffic was getting too thick for comfort. This might be one of the Paint-Faces or it might be the notorious magician—“Propsander!” Loonza whispered. We drew the folds of the draperies a little closer, allowing a crack of light to come through, admitting the image of the man descending the stairs.

  “They’re moving another skeleton out there on the shore,” Propsander growled. His words were punctuated by the heavy beat of his feet on the steps and his fists on the railing. “It’s the boy again. I don’t know what’s devilin’ him. Hornin’ in on your racket, Monty.”

  “My ornaments! Has he stolen another?” the little old man cackled sharply.

  “If he was, I could figure him out. But hell, he’s bringin’ back the one he stole before. I
can’t figure it.”

  “Returning it where?”

  “I’ll watch and see. As soon as he gets around the Paint-Faces, I’ll report. They’re sound asleep as usual.” The magician Propsander hardly fulfilled my expectations. I had pictured a tall, graceful polished looking person with the clever gestures of a Frenchman and a voice that would be at least pleasant and attractive. This man failed my guess all around. He was thick-necked, flat-nosed, and heavy knuckled and he had all the look of an inmate with a bad criminal record. His jaw sagged with surliness, and his general bearing, burdened by Humpty-Dumpty lines, was anything but proud and attractive.

  There was hard-driving quality about him, however; and that was what had doubtless won the place for him as an executive for the Mong. His arrogant eyes under half-closed lids show a glint of knowing what the score was. And his gravel-edged speech, too, was clipped with directness and purpose.

  Here was one earth man, obviously imported within recent times, who had not only found his way past the Paint-Face barriers to this tower, but had also made a sure, comfortable place for himself with the Mong.

  “Magician!” I whispered sarcastically as soon as he had passed through the room. Loonza looked at me questioningly and I started to give her a wink. I caught myself—a record of sorts; for it was probably the first time in my life that I had ever called off a wink just in time.

  “Did you hear what he said about the skeleton?” Loonza asked.

  “That’s your brother he’s talking about. Bud’s taking an awful risk, trying to replace the skeleton I borrowed.” Now that both Propsander and the Mong had moved out of hearing I gave Loonza the facts on my skeleton deal. It was a plucky thing for Bud to do, carrying a replacement for the specimen I had grabbed—in order to prevent the guards from getting on my trail. But if Bud was being watched, the danger would soon catch up with him. “I wish I could warn him. If I could only trust myself to walk into the open as a Paint-Face, I’d try.”

  “No, George. You leave Bud’s troubles to him. This is his world—probably the only world he’ll ever know—unless he gets a broken heart sometime and decides he’ll have to leave to get over it.”

  “Ugh?” I slipped an arm around Loonza. “Do you think that’s a good way for a person to get over a broken heart?”

  “But Bud doesn’t have a broken heart. He may never have one.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Going to a new world might help a person to forget.”

  “It’s worth thinking about, Loonza,” I said, feeling very close to her.

  We played a game of hide and seek with the Mong very soon after that. He was plodding around restlessly from one room to another, and we followed him. Loonza believed he had been upset by Propsander’s talk of skeleton thefts.

  “He has enough human skeletons to keep him happy the rest of his life,” she said.

  “Natural life?” I wondered. He looked to me as if he had already lived forty years beyond his time.

  As for the skeletons, Loonza and I saw a whole drawing room lined with them as we crossed to a new hiding place. The walls and pillars and even the ceilings had been decorated with selected bones, strung together in all manner of fantastic shapes.

  The old man’s footsteps shuffled slowly up the stairs. Loonza and I awaited our chances and presently followed him.

  Now we had returned to the level of the rear entrance where we had originally come with a basket of goods. The Paint-Face with the name “Zober” on his back was moving about quietly on the rear porch. The other guards had accompanied Propsander down the spiral tower steps on his errand to the water level.

  Propsander had left in a bad mood, stating that he would go down and stir those lazy Paint-Faces out of their deep sleep. He had referred to the guards at the end of the purple walk who had failed to see Bud slip around them with a skeleton in tow.

  The coast was almost clear. This was what we had waited for. As long as the husky Zober remained occupied out on the back porch, Loonza and I apparently had the aged Mong all to ourselves.

  “Ha!” His cackle of satisfaction told us that he was off on some mysterious purpose of his own. “At last.”

  We hid behind a stack of Mercurian skulls heaped as high as the ceiling; we dodged around two piles of miscellaneous bones; then, sliding through the grey and blue draperies, we caught our first view of what must have been the Mong’s private laboratory.

  “At last!” the Mong repeated.

  He stood against a circular glass wall. It enclosed a section of marble floor that was hollowed out in the shape of a funnel. It was like a polished stone morning glory, about twenty feet in diameter, at the bottom of a glass cylinder.

  The old man touched one of the levers which projected from the glass wall. A trap door opened upward, a splash of water came through, and with it came a long sharp green nose, emerging as the narrow savage head of an ocean lizard.

  The lizard was doubtless surprised by this sudden exit from its prison. It blinked at the creamy light of the room and came paddling out on his four glittering webbed feet. It was a handsome, dangerous-looking fifteen-foot monster. Ignoring us, it pranced around the upper edges of the funnel, sniffing and shrugging, apparently wondering where it would find a pool. The splash of water had drained away. But now the old man touched another lever and a wonderful gush of glassy syrup spilled down from an opening at the top of the glass cylinder. The Mong’s little brown hand, still lifted, shook with excitement.

  “Ghagstic!” Loonza whispered in awe.

  It was a veritable showerbath of ghagstic! It sprayed against the circular glass wall like a dash of blinding rain. Loonza and I forgot ourselves and crept closer. For a moment I couldn’t see what had happened to the big twelve foot ocean lizard. Then I caught sight of him.

  For one quick moment the beast leaped around, looking for someone to fight. He was in pain. He whipped his tail against the circular enclosure. Suddenly he straightened, lifted his vicious looking head and tried to open his eyes wide.

  That was his last effort. The ghagstic had him. It showered over him and coated him with an inch-thick transparent covering.

  Almost instantly it must have solidified over him, for all of his motions ceased, and there he stood, a polished statue of himself, as lifelike as anything could be in death.

  The excess ghagstic hissed down into the funnel and with a swallowing sound was gone.

  “At last!” the Mong repeated. He looked away from the object of his experiment. “You see, I’ve always wanted to add an ocean lizard to my collection.”

  Loonza whispered almost inaudibly. “He’s talking to us . . . See . . . He’s watching us through the mirror . . . We’re caught.”

  CHAPTER XII

  He turned, not as if he had discovered intruders, but as if I were one of his Paint-Faces, standing by for any emergency.

  Loonza, clutching my arm, whispered, “He thinks you belong here.”

  It was a strange physical sensation, being stared at by such a weird aged man. His shining watery eyes looked from me to Loonza. “Well! What do you think of him?”

  We came closer to the circular wall, as if drawn by his eyes. If our only purpose had been to admire the museum pieces of this eccentric collector, we might have paid a high compliment to the picturesque statue he had just created. My boundless curiosity resulted in an oblique comment.

  “Do you think he’s a match for your other specimens?” I tried to appear casual.

  My question was almost lost, for now the Mong was looking at Loonza, studying her intently. Then—

  “Huh? What are you saying? A match for my best? Ha! I have some beauties.” Again it was the sight of Loonza that held his attention. “Beauties—yes! But there are always new ones to be had, each more beautiful than the last . . .‘Er—” He turned to me with an order. “Take him to the mounting room at once.”

  I swallowed hard. I moved toward the door in the glass wall, unlatched it, opened it�
��

  “What are you doing?” he cracked. “I was going to take him—”

  “You fool. Do you expect to drag him with your hands? You know I wouldn’t have you touch him with your bare hands.” He was looking at my hands critically. He edged toward me, scrutinizing my painted face. “I don’t know you.”

  “I just came,” I said.

  “Let Zober take care of this. I don’t want any amateurs working with my models. Latch the door and come away. Who are you?”

  “My name is George.”

  “Did Propsander hire you?”

  “I—I just came—”

  “You said that. Who is this girl? Are you here to ask me a favor? I suppose you want me to add another member to my human collection.”

  “Ye gods, no!” I blurted.

  “It’s a very exclusive collection. Her family would be honored. I would let them come to look at her once every year. No? Speak up. What’s your business?”

  I drew a hard breath and spoke with all the cool courage I could muster. A leap in the dark, perhaps. But this was my chance.

  “Mr. Montgomery, I want to talk business with you.”

  “Mr. Montgomery! Well! Who told you that was my name?”

  The Mong’s bony brown arms jerked as if he had been shocked, and his thin white hair gave a furious toss.

  “I learned all about you from one of the Freemans,” I said. “Did you know that two Freeman brothers have come down to this ocean den to visit you?”

  “Two Freeman brothers!” His head lowered and waggled with a ducking motion like a snake trying to decide where to strike. I continued as calmly and impersonally as I could. “They were the direct descendants of your stepbrother, upon whom you practiced your arts of robbery and ghagstic murder. One of them is still alive, and he’s going to face you.”

  “How interesting! Someone has filled you with delightful stories. Come, I want to see how the water hornets will like me when they hear your pretty words.”

  Loonza was trembling. I ushered her across the room after the little old man. He led us to a corner of the balcony, so that we were looking down on the Crimson Sea. The thick stone columns at either side of us I recognized as two stubby fingers of this Twisted Arm tower.