by John Maclay
Sighing, I went down and got my buffalo robe from my bedroll. It was two jobs to get it back up, with the wind still blowing in gusts, but I managed. Then I lifted and shifted and maneuvered until I had it around old Thunder-on-the-Mountain, and I tied it down good and proper.
He lay there, quiet as death, but I still had the feeling that those eyes were wide open and seeing through to my bones. I went down the scaffold for the last time in one rush, got on my horse and lit out.
The lightning had stopped now, but I could hear some sort of low, grumbling sound that hadn’t any direction that I could fix. Then, over the rumbling and pounding of Gray’s hooves, I could hear the sharp, clear sound of that eagle-claw rattle.
Gray screamed and shuddered, rearing and turning as the ground opened in front of us. It unseated me, and I fell, my boots sliding out of the stirrups as if they were greased.
I seemed to fall forever, with the sound of that rattle clashing and laughing in my ears all the way down. I felt bones snap all over me when I hit bottom. My teeth were full of grit, and I think my jaw was busted. I went out for a long time.
When I came to, old Thunder was sitting there beside me. The rattle was shushing away in a soft rhythm, and the old bastard was saying something long and complicated in his heathenish lingo. Now and again he’d stand up and shake his hands at the sky. They were back on, good and tight.
He’s waiting for me to die. He’s making Injun magic right now, and it’ll trap me down here, with the walls of the crack already beginning to sag back together. As soon as I die, he’s going to bury me, body, soul, and all, in all this rock and dirt, and I’ll never get to heaven. I’ll turn to old boot leather, just like he did, instead of rotting away, like a Christian corpse, to bones.
Damn him. He’s going to make me a mummy too.
THROUGH THE PADDED DOOR
What would it be like to be a lunatic under seven moons?
I felt the pressure of their unseen gazes on me. The mutter of voices came to my ears, though the construction and the padding are supposed to prevent one in my circumstances from knowing that he is observed. This detention seems to have sharpened my senses to preternatural acuteness.
Or perhaps the shock treatments—could those terrible bouts of terror and pain have had some effect that the doctors never dreamed of? Possibly. I do know with certainty that the almost invisible flicker of lines across my vision slowed a great deal after the first series of those treatments. To the point at which I realized that such things are no mere aberration of the eyes, but actual dividing-lines between multiple dimensions that must coexist with ours.
After every shock, I could hear and feel and see more acutely. Words became perfectly audible, through the layered padding and the thick walls.
“He shows every sign of improvement, Doctor. Do you think that we can risk him in one of the secure rooms now? He seems very calm and quite docile, except for his struggles when we take him to therapy.” A female voice. A face rises in my memory: eyes with the bulge of thyroid, spotty skin, hairline moustache. No charmer, to be sure, but not, all in all, unkind.
“Not yet, Thurgood. Things seem to be going well, but I have an uncanny hunch about Carver there. I’ve seen too many madmen put on a good show of being completely stable, only to run amok almost immediately upon being given the chance. No, we’ll keep him in maximum security for another week. After all, we wouldn’t want a recurrence of...of what sent him to us, now would we?”
I could see Durstine’s heavy face as he spoke. It loomed in the eyes of my mind, and I hated it. Hated it in the way I had hated—but no. I mustn’t think of that again. My only chance of escape is in cool, calm, balanced behavior. No one has ever left the walls of Clendenning Institution except by release given by the doctors or by death.
But how can one become sane under conditions guaranteed to drive any human being to insanity? They have taken away the strait-jacket now, but even that small favor leaves me to stare at four pale-green padded walls, a darker green padded floor, a padded ceiling seven feet above the floor, and the padded interior of the door, with its six-inch-square inset of one-way glass. Enough to drive anyone out of his skull.
* * * *
Thank God for the flickering lines. It has reached a point at which I can slow them by an act of will. Slow them, actually, to a stop for a short time. And then I can see into those alien dimensions. Without that diversion, I might well have dropped into a melancholia from which nothing could rouse me.
My favorite is the one with seven moons. There is a strip of beach that glistens darkly in the moonlight, a troubled bay—or perhaps a sea—with sharp-topped waves whose edges are trimmed with pearly foam. Three of the moons range along the horizon at differing angles. Two are almost overhead. The complex light patterns indicate that at least two more are down in the sky opposite the visible horizon. I have always had a thing about the moon, and the notion of seven drives me almost giddy.
Of course, the pink world is charming. It gives me a very drowsy, peaceful feeling, and watching the odd little creatures wriggle their darkly pink bodies into and out of the huge bell-shaped flowers is almost hypnotic. I’d like to visit that one. Not to stay, just to find out why humanoid beings live, or nap, or forage, or whatever they do inside plants’ blossoms.
There is a hard-edged dimension that makes me think of the way Africa must be—or must have been before the advent of Man. Desert abuts heavy forest lands, in which grim beasts prowl and prey and mate and die. Strange beasts, to be sure, but in their habits not unlike those of our own world. Yet I would not want even to visit there.
Oh, there are dozens—perhaps there might be hundreds, if I were expert enough to halt the flipping lines quickly enough. Worlds and spaces, peopled and unpeopled. Nighted and lighted, though by going back I can sometimes catch a familiar world by day instead of night, or vice versa. Going back—that is something that I can’t quite comprehend. In some way I have become able to reverse the flickering pattern of lines, run them backward until I catch a distinctive color gradient. I have now seen my seven-moon world by day and night, by summer and winter. At times there are people on that beach. They construct intricate sculptures of some glassy substance on the flat rocks that seem to have been placed along the sands just for that purpose. I have, just once, been able to hold the dimension open for long enough to see the waters rush greedily inward to devour those fragile shapes and bear their fragments back into the deeps. The tides, I assume, are irregular and chaotic in the extreme there.
Every trip to therapy leaves me more enervated, more despairing. Yet those trips seem to be refining my abilities. I can find my seven-moon world at any time now. Those choppy waters soothe me, help me to maintain my counterfeit “sanity.” They help me to forget my last moonlit night of freedom, here in my own world. To smooth away the memory of the thing I did, there in the moonlight.
But I am not able to continue as I am. Blackness looms behind me, threatening to inundate me in its moonless flood. A week here? I cannot bear another day here. Desperation flavors every motion, every thought, every message sent along every nerve.
As I thought that, I was staring into “my world,” on just such a night as I best loved to see there. Four moons ranged up the visible sky, and the light from the others was “behind” me. The waves were slapping at the shore, almost audible, even across the dimensions. A single figure sat atop one of the stone slabs, staring out to sea. As if my desperation had found its way to touch him, he turned and looked directly into my eyes.
He saw me! I had no doubt of that. His eyes were puddles of shadow beneath a high forehead, and they widened visibly. His hand moved out toward me. His thin, inhuman lips moved, as if he were asking a question,
I knew that our languages could not be mutually comprehensible, so I didn’t try to speak. Instead, I concentrated with every bit of strength at my command. I am
imprisoned, my spirit screamed across unguessable depths. I am tortured almost every day! They will never let me go free, no matter how well I behave, and I cannot endure it any longer. Darkness is coming to claim me, and I am unable to resist it.
I was sweating, my shapeless overall damp with exertion, though I had moved no muscle. Yet how could that alien shape help me? Why would he help me? Not one of my own kind would lift a finger to do that. Tears rose in my eyes at the thought.
There was a clicking at my padded door. Another trip to therapy! I could not—could not—could not bear it!
The surge of raw emotion touched my friend in the seven-moon world. He lifted a rod made of the glassy stuff. His thin lips moved. As the gross shape of Thurgood came through the padded door, I dissolved, stretched, thinned, changed...something. And slipped sidewise through the line that held that beach, that sea, those moons.
I landed on my knees beside one of the slabs. Sand gritted under my palms as I heaved myself onto my feet, and I could hear, at last, the slapping of the waves. My joy lifted me, for an instant, to unimagined heights. I turned to thank my new friend.
And the mad forces of the moons caught me in their grasp! The strangeness that had overtaken me beneath Earth’s single, though large, satellite was multiplied many times by the seven moons that spangled the beach and the sea with maddening patterns of light. My head spun, my senses struggling for balance in this terrible new system.
The creature who had brought me through had risen and was coming to meet me, thin hands outstretched. Its tinkling voice added to my distress. Overwhelmed by the strangeness, the alien pulls from the sky, I gestured for silence, but he did not understand. He came nearer, tinkling and tinkling his mind-piercing words. My hands moved, of their own volition. He broke into shards in their frenzied grasp and fell onto the sand, glittering in the moonlight.
Oh, God! It has happened again, and I am in a place too strange to comprehend!
I want to go back! Back through the padded door!
THE AFFAIR OF THE MIDNIGHT MIDGET
Sometimes writing a pastiche is great fun! I never did think Mrs. Hudson got her due; having Sherlock Holmes for a tenant must have been a pain!
221b, Baker Street
3 November
Dear Doctor Watson,
It is with some trepidation that I take pen in hand to interrupt your convalescence (I hope that you are now able to walk with more ease and comfort). My apologies to your good lady for the intrusion of my affairs into her regimen, and I hope that she will forgive me for it.
However, after observing Mr. Holmes’s behavior for some time, I have determined that something very strange is taking place. As you know all too well, this is nothing new with Mr. Holmes, but so bizarre is this new matter that I feel you will agree that it needs some attention from one who understands and makes allowances for his eccentricities.
He has, for the past fortnight, been arriving home very late. Indeed, I might even say that on several occasions he has not come in at all. This would give me no occasion for uneasiness, except for the fact that he has suffered from a bronchial infection, and the weather has been notably chilly and damp. Remaining out at night seems rash, when one considers the risk.
In addition, the array of small boys has stopped coming altogether. For many years, I have been used to having street urchins cluttering my doorstep, and I must admit that I rather miss their shrill voices, if not their grimy feet on my hall carpet. But this, if nothing else, has alarmed me. If Mr. Holmes no longer needs the services of his Irregulars, either he is far more ill than he has shown or admitted to me, or he has some venture on hand that is too desperate for risking the persons of his young colleagues.
Having kept a cool head over the years of his tenancy, under, I believe that you will agree, some extremely alarming circumstances, I feel that I am not showing undue concern, at this point. And in order to prove to you that this is true, I will list the oddities I have noticed lately in order of their seeming importance:
1. A well-dressed midget arrived four days ago, while Mr. Holmes was out. Knowing my lodger’s habits, I scrutinized the man closely and decided that under no circumstances could Mr. Holmes have compressed his lanky height into such a minuscule form, and so I denied him entrance. He turned upon me a scurrilous attack, and that proved past question that it was not our friend, for he is invariably civil in his treatment of me. However, the midget left behind a packet, which I placed on the hall table.
2. Mr. Holmes must have come in without my hearing him, though I hardly see how that could be. However, I was awakened at three o’clock yesterday morning by a muffled explosion. Donning my dressing gown at once, I hurried downstairs, to find Mr. Holmes standing in the hallway, holding what seemed to be the remnant of wrapping from that same packet.
“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, as I approached, in some dismay. “Nothing is seriously damaged—not even the intended victim.” Here he laughed in a rather bitter manner and turned back into his rooms, still holding the wrapping. Shortly afterward, I heard his violin start up, and it was a dreadfully dismal air that he played.
Now you know quite well that this is not the first violent occurrence in the chambers at 221b. I have never objected to such matters, for it seems clear that a detective’s life is subject to this sort of happening, and the rental paid is more than enough to cover incidental damage. However, when I entered the chambers the next morning to lay out his breakfast, I found that the room, though tidier than usual, still reeked of something like gunpowder. There was, in addition, a bloodstain on the carpet, although it had been scrubbed almost clean.
I observed no wound upon Mr. Holmes’s person, nor any blood, the night before, and it occurs to me that if the blood is not his, there is someone else hiding in his rooms. Would you have any notion as to who that might be?
3. This morning when I tapped on the door before entering with the tray, I received no reply, though there was indubitably the sound of movement inside the room. I called out several times, asking if he might be ill, but, while I heard footsteps crossing the uncarpeted area of the floor, I still received no reply. The steps were brisk and did not drag, as one would expect those of a sick or injured man to do.
As you might suspect, I am extremely worried and upset. It is obvious that someone is posing a danger to my tenant. It seems obvious also that he is hiding someone (perhaps sheltering them from harm?) in his chambers.
Yet he is exhibiting none of his usual methods of dealing with such problems. Not one person has approached in weeks, with the single exception of that objectionable midget. He is, I believe, more often in than out, though I can no longer be certain of anything concerning his movements.
And, early this morning, his brother Mycroft sent around a note by the hand of one of the ushers at his club. I have not been able to receive an answer to my knocks, and I hesitate to slip it under the door, in the event that the person inside is one who should not know whatever message that note contains.
Dr. Watson, I badly need advice. If I should call at your home tomorrow, would you be so kind as to see and to advise your respectful
Martha Hudson
* * * *
221b Baker Street
5 November
Dear Doctor Watson,
It was most gracious of you and your lady to receive me, as well as to advise me concerning the current problem. Indeed, I will gladly keep you abreast of the situation, as events come to my attention.
I have taken your advice and hired an extra cleaning-woman, who is charged with scouring every staircase in the house from top to bottom, taking her time and doing the thing properly. As this involves mops and pails, brooms and scrubbing brushes, which seem to be scattered along every length of steps in the house, it is quite probable that I will know if anyone tries to creep upstairs.
Mr. Holmes is definitely
out at the moment. I saw him go myself not an hour past. He looked very drawn, with his throat muffled closely. I do worry about that bronchitis. He seems thinner than before, and he did not walk with his usual decisive tread. Something is worrying him.
Immediately after watching him from view, I climbed the steps, being careful to avoid every obstacle that Tilly left there, and listened at the door of the rooms. Someone was pacing back and forth, and I thought that I caught the hint of a whistled tune, though that was quickly discontinued.
And here comes Mr. Holmes, back already. I must put away my writing things and prepare his tea—he has taken none for several afternoons.
* * * *
Later—
Dear Doctor Watson,
My plans were disrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade of the London Police. Would you credit it? He arrived with a warrant and proceeded to search Mr. Holmes’s chambers from top to bottom. He was searching, if you can believe this, for my tenant’s nephew!
This was a great surprise to me. I have known that there was a brother, a recluse, I believe, and I would have thought him a misogynist as well. However, it seems that in his early youth, our Mr. Holmes’s relation contracted a marriage with a young woman who died after producing an infant. This child was reared by a distant cousin and is now in his early twenties. He has been accused of murdering the father of a young person who, he claims, is his fiancée.
No trace of anyone other than my lawful tenant was found on the premises, which puzzled me a great deal for a time. And then I recalled the false ceiling that Mr. Holmes asked to have installed in his study. I suspect that the young man is, even as I write, cramped and dusty in the darkness of that narrow space between the new and the old.
This explains the person hiding in the rooms, true, but it leaves almost more questions unanswered. Who was that midget, and why was a bomb left for Mr. Holmes? Why is he keeping his usual contacts at a distance? And why is he hiding a person who is wanted by the law, when, if the boy is innocent, he might promptly prove that to be true?
