The Manitou
Page 19
It wasn’t any of these things that transfixed me, however. It was the pale, slender figure who stood silently in the corner of the room—wan and white like a ghost of someone I once knew. I said nothing at all, but simply held out my hands to her—making her welcome back to an existence that she nearly lost forever.
“Harry,” she whispered. “I’m alive, Harry.”
And it was then that Lieutenant Marino, his gun drawn, came bursting through the door to find us.
I sat with Singing Rock at La Guardia, under the massive bronze bust of La Guardia himself, having a last cigarette before he caught his flight. He looked as neat and tidy as ever, with his shiny suit and his horn-rim glasses, and there was nothing to show what he had done, or what he had been through, except for a band-aid across his cheek.
We heard jets taxi down the runways outside, and the murmur of voices, and the late afternoon sun glowed orange in a wintry sky.
“I feel a little sad, in some ways,” he said.
“Sad?” I asked him. “What about?”
“About Misquamacus. If only we’d had a chance to explain to him what had happened. If only we could have communicated with him.”
I took a long drag at my cigarette. “It’s a little late for that now. And remember that he would have killed us, just as surely and quickly as we needed to kill him.”
Singing Rock nodded. “Perhaps we shall meet him again, in better circumstances. Then maybe we could talk.”
I said: “He’s dead—isn’t he? What do you mean—meet him again?”
Singing Rock took his eyeglasses off his nose and wiped them with a clean white handkerchief. “The body died, but we can’t be sure that the manitou was destroyed. Maybe it was released on to a higher plane, and is ready to join those who exist without any physical presence at all. Maybe it will come back to earth, and live again in someone else’s body.”
I frowned. “You’re not saying that this could happen again?”
Singing Rock shrugged. “Who knows? There are many mysteries in the universe that we know nothing about at all. What we see during our physical life on earth is simply a fragment. There are strange worlds within worlds, and stranger worlds within those worlds. It would pay us not to forget that.”
“And the Great Old One?”
Singing Rock collected his bag and stood up. “The Great Old One,” he said, “will always be among us. For as long as there are dark nights and inexplicable fears, the Great Old One will always be there.”
That was all he said. He took my hand, and squeezed it, and then went off to catch his flight.
It was nearly three weeks later before I was able to get out to New England. I drove all the way, and the fields and the houses were still blanketed with snow. The sky was the color of gum, and an orange sun hid wanly behind the trees.
I arrived just before dusk, and pulled my Cougar up in front of the elegant white painted colonial house and climbed out. The front door opened, and there was Jeremy Tandy, as dry and spry as ever, coming out to greet me and take my bags.
“We’re so pleased you could make it, Mr. Erskine,” he said, as warmly as he knew how. “You must have had a cold trip.”
I wiped my feet on the doormat. “It wasn’t so bad. I enjoy adverse conditions.”
Inside, Mrs. Tandy took my coat, and it was warm and firelit and cheerful. The long sitting room was crowded with homely antiques—big colonial easy chairs and sofas, brass lamps, and plenty of ornaments and pictures of rural scenes.
“Would you care for some hot chowder?” asked Mrs. Tandy, and I could have kissed her.
I sat down in front of the fire. Jeremy Tandy poured me a large whiskey while his wife busied herself in the kitchen.
“How’s Karen?” I asked him. “Is she still improving?”
Jeremy Tandy nodded. “She can’t walk yet, but she’s putting on weight and she’s much more cheerful. You can go up and see her later. She’s been looking forward to this visit all week.”
I sipped whiskey. “So have I,” I said, a little tiredly. “I haven’t been sleeping too well since this thing was over.”
Jeremy Tandy lowered his head. “Well—no—none of us have.”
We made small talk for a while, and then Mrs. Tandy brought me the chowder. It was good and hot and thick, and I sat by the crackling fire and ate it gratefully.
Later, I went upstairs to see Karen. She was peaky and pale, but her father was right. She was putting on weight, and she was going to recover. I sat on the end of her country-quilted walnut bed, and we talked about her hobbies, and her future, and everything in the world except Misquamacus.
“Dr. Hughes told me, privately, that you were very brave,” she said after a while. “He says that what really happened was nothing like the newspaper stories at all. He said that nobody would have believed them if they’d told the truth.”
I took her hand. “The truth isn’t very important. I can’t really believe the truth myself.”
She gave me a small, friendly smile. “I just wanted to say thank you, anyway, because I do think I owe you my life.”
“Don’t mention it. Maybe you can do the same for me one day.”
I stood up. “I have to go downstairs now. Your mother told me not to tire you out. I think you’re going to need all the rest you can get.”
“Okay,” she laughed. “I’m getting a little bored with all this mollycoddling, but I guess I’ll have to put up with it.”
“If you need anything, just tell me,” I said. “Books, magazines, fruit. Just say the word.”
I opened the door to leave, and Karen said: “De boot, mijnheer.”
I froze. I felt as if a pair of cold hands had been laid on my back. I turned around and said: "What did you say?”
Karen was still smiling. She said: “Be good, my dear. That’s what I said. Be good, my dear.”
I closed the door of her room. Outside, on the landing, it was silent and dark. The old colonial house creaked under the weight of the winter’s show.
“That’s what I thought you said,” I whispered to myself, and went downstairs.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Graham Masterton
ISBN 978-1-4976-3143-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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