Horses!

by Gardner Dozois

  Unusually well crafted examples of that curious sub-genre known as the "club story" or "bar story"—whose antecedents in the fantasy field go back at least as far as Lord Dunsany's stories of the clubman Jorkens, and include subsequent work by Arthur C. Clarke, L. Sprague De Camp and Fletcher Pratt—Lanier's Ffellowes stories are erudite, intelligent, witty, fast-paced—and often just plain scary.

  In "His Coat So Gay," one of the most suspenseful and chilling of all the Brigadier Ffellowes stories, Ffellowes is invited to a remote valley for a week of hunting, but instead finds himself the prey of the monstrous, relentless, clip-clopping black shape of the Dead Horse . . .

  There had been a big spread in the newspapers about a British duke going through bankruptcy proceedings and his third divorce simultaneously. The divorce was contested, the evidence was sordid and those giving it equally so. The nobleman in question came out of the whole thing very badly, it being proved, among other things, that he had run up huge debts to tradesmen, knowing damn well when he did it that he couldn't hope to pay them. There was lots more, though, including secret "orgies," which seem to have been dirty parties of the sort to have passed quite unnoticed in Los Angeles.

  One of the members tapped his newspaper. A few of us were sitting upstairs in the library after dinner. It was a hot night in New York, but the club was air-conditioned and very pleasant.

  "Good thing," said the man with the paper, "that Mason Williams isn't here to shout about this. He'd love to give General Ffellowes a hard time. Can't you hear him? `Rotten bunch of degenerates! Lousy overbearing crooks and cadgers! Long line of aristocratic bums and swindlers!' It would be the best opportunity he's had in years for trying to annoy the brigadier."

  "I notice you were smart enough to say 'trying' !" said someone else. "He's never managed to annoy Ffellowes yet. I doubt if this would do it either."

  "Who wants to annoy me, eh?" came the easy, clipped tones of our favorite English member. He had come up the narrow back stairs at the other end of the room and was now standing behind my own back. He always moved silently, not I feel certain out of a desire to be stealthy, but from a lifetime's training. Ffellowes' years in (apparently) every secret as well as public branch of Her Majesty's service had given him the ability to walk like a cat, and a quiet one at that.

  I jumped and so did a couple of others, and then there was a moment of embarrassed silence.

  Ffellowes is very quick. He saw the newspaper headline in my neighbor's lap and began to chuckle.

  "Good heavens, is that supposed to offend me? What a hope! I suppose someone thought our friend Williams might make use of it to savage the British Lion, eh?" He moved from behind my chair and dropped into a vacant seat, his eyes twinkling.

  "Item," he said, "the man in question's a Scot, not English. Most important distinction. A lesser and unstable breed." This was said with such dead-pan emphasis that we all started to laugh at once. Ffellowes' smooth, ruddy face remained immobile, but his blue eyes danced.

  "If you won't be serious," he said, when the laughter died away, "I shall have to explain why Chattan's little peccadilloes are unlikely to move me to wrath. Or anyone else with any real knowledge, for that matter.

  "You know, Richard the Lion Heart was a bad debtor on a scale that makes anyone modern look silly. All the Plantagenets were, for that matter. Richard seems to have been a quite unabashed queer as well, of course, and likewise William the Second, called Rufus. When, at any rate, one asked those lads for monies due, one had better have had a fast horse and a waiting ship. They canceled debts rather abruptly. There are thousands more examples, but I mention the kings as quite a fairish sample. Now Chattan's an ass and his sexual troubles are purely squalid, fit only for headlines in a cheap paper. But there are other cases no paper ever got to print. Not so long ago, one of your splashier magazines ran a purely fictional piece about an aged nobleman, Scots again, who was sentenced never to leave his family castle, as a result of an atrocious crime, not quite provable. The story happens to be quite true and the verdict was approved by the Lords in a closed session. The last pope but two had a South Italian cardinal locked up in his own palace for the remainder of his life on various charges not susceptible of public utterance. The old man only died ten years ago. So it goes, and there are dozens more cases of a similar nature.

  "The fact is, persons in positions of power often abuse that power in the oddest and most unpleasant ways. The extent of caprice in the human mind is infinite. Whenever public gaze, so to speak, is withdrawn, oddities occur, and far worse than illicit sex is involved in these pockets of infection. Once off the highways of humanity, if you care for analogies, one finds the oddest byways. All that's needed is isolation, that and power, economic or physical." He seemed to brood for a moment.

  Outside the windows, the haze and smog kept even the blaze of Manhattan at night dim and sultry looking. The garish electricity of New York took on something of the appearance of patches of torch and fire light in the heat and murk.

  "Haven't you left out one qualification, sir?" said a younger member. "What about time? Surely, to get these Dracula-castle effects and so on, you have to have centuries to play with a complaisant bunch of peasants, hereditary aristocrats, the whole bit. In other words, a really old country, right?"

  Ffellowes stared at the opposite wall for a bit before answering. Finally he seemed to shrug, as if he had come to a decision.

  "Gilles de Rais," he said, "is perhaps the best example known of your Dracula syndrome, so I admit I must agree with you. In general, however, only in general. The worst case of this sort of thing which ever came to my personal knowledge, and very personal it was, took place in the early 1930's in one of your larger Eastern states. So that while time is certainly needed, as indeed for the formation of any disease, the so-called modern age is not so much of a protection as one might think. And yet there was great age, too."

  He raised his hand and the hum of startled comment which had begun to rise died at once.

  "I'll tell you the story. But I'll tell it my way. No questions of any sort whatsoever. There are still people alive who could be injured. I shall cheerfully disguise and alter any detail I can which might lead to identification of the family or place concerned. Beyond that, you will simply have to accept my word. If you're interested on that basis . . . ?"

  The circle of faces, mine included, was so eager that his iron countenance damned near cracked into a grin, but he held it back and began.

  "In the early days of your, and indeed everyone's, Great Depression, I was the most junior military attache of our Washington embassy. It was an agreeable part of my duties to mix socially as much as I could with Americans of my own age. One way of doing this was hunting, fox hunting to be more explicit. I used to go out with the Middleburg Hunt, and while enjoying the exercise, I made a number of friends as well.

  "One of them was a man whom I shall call Canler Waldron. That's not even an anagram, but sounds vaguely like his real name. He was supposed to be putting in time as junior member of your State Department, my own age and very good company.

  "It was immediately obvious that he was extremely well off. Most people, of course, had been at least affected a trifle by the Crash, if not a whole lot, but it was plain that whatever Can's financial basis was, it had hardly been shaken. Small comments were revealing, especially his puzzlement when, as often happened, others pleaded lack of funds to explain some inability to take a trip or to purchase something. He was, I may add, the most generous of men financially, and without being what you'd call a `sucker,' he was very easy to leave with the check, so much so one had to guard against it.

  "He was pleasant looking, black haired, narrow faced, dark brown eyes, a generalized North European type, and, as I said, about my own age, barely twenty-one. And what a magnificent rider! I'm not bad, or wasn't then, but I've never seen anyone to match Canler Waldron. No fence ever bothered him and he always led the field, riding so easily that he hardly appeared to be
conscious of what he was doing. It got so that he became embarrassed by the attention and used to pull his horse in order to stay back and not be first at every death. Of course he was magnificently mounted; he had a whole string of big black hunters, his own private breed he said. But there were others out who had fine `cattle' too; no, he was simply a superb rider.

  "We were chatting one Fall morning after a very dull run, and I asked him why he always wore the black hunting coat of a non-hunt member. I knew he belonged to some hunt or other and didn't understand why he never used their colors.

  " `Highly embarrassing to explain to you, Donald, of all people,' he said, but he was smiling. `My family were Irish and very patriotic during our Revolution. No pink coats (`pink' being the term for hunting red) for us. Too close to the hated redcoat army in looks, see? So we wear light green, and I frankly get damned tired of being asked what it is. That's all.'

  "I was amused for several reasons. 'Of course I understand. Some of our own hunts wear other colors, you know. But I thought green coats were for foot hounds, beagles, bassetts and such?'

  " `Ours is much lighter, like grass, with buff lapels,' he said. He seemed a little ill at ease for some reason, as our horses shifted and stamped under the hot Virginia sun. `It's a family hunt, you see. No non-Waldron can wear the coat. This sounds pretty snobby, so again, I avoid questions by not wearing it except at home. Betty feels the same way and she hates black. Here she comes now. What did you think of the ride, Sis?'

  " `Not very exciting,' she said quietly, looking around so that she should not be convicted of rudeness to our hosts. I haven't mentioned Betty Waldron, have I? Even after all these years, it's still painful.

  "She was nineteen years old, very pale, and no sun ever raised so much as a freckle. Her eyes were almost black, her hair midnight, and her voice very gentle and sad. She was quiet, seldom smiled, and when she did my heart turned over. Usually, her thoughts were miles away and she seemed to walk in a dream. She also rode superbly, almost absentmindedly, to look at her."

  Ffellowes sighed and arched his hands together in his lap, his gaze fixed on the rug before him.

  "I was a poor devil of an artillery subaltern, few prospects save for my pay, but I could dream, as long as I kept my mouth shut. She seemed to like me as much, or even more than the gaudy lads who were always flocking about, and I felt I had a tiny, the smallest grain of hope. I'd never said a thing. I knew already the family must be staggeringly rich and I had my pride. But also, as I say, my dreams.

  " `Let's ask Donald home and give him some real sport,' I suddenly heard Can say to her.

  " `When?' she asked sharply, looking hard at him.

  " `How about the end of the cubbing season? Last week in October. Get the best of both sports, adult and young. Hounds will be in good condition, and it's our best time of year.' He smiled at me and patted his horse. `What say, limey? Like some real hunting, eight hours sometimes?'

  "I was delighted and surprised, because I'd heard several people fishing rather obviously for invitations to the Waldron place at one time or another and all being politely choked off. I had made up my mind never to place myself where such a rebuff could strike me. There was a goodish number of fortune-hunting Europeans about just then, some of them English, and they made me a trifle ill. But I was surprised and hurt, too, by Betty's reaction.

  " `Not this Fall, Can,' she said, her face even whiter than usual. Not—this—Fall!' The words were stressed separately and came out with an intensity I can't convey.

  " `As the head of the family, I'm afraid what I say goes,' said Canler in a voice I'd certainly never heard him use before. It was heavy and dominating, even domineering. As I watched, quite baffled, she choked back a sob and urged her horse away from us. In a moment her slender black back and shining topper were lost in the milling sea of the main body of the hunt. I was really hurt badly.

  " `Now look here, old boy,' I said. `I don't know what's going on, but I can't possibly accept your invitation under these circumstances. Betty obviously loathes the idea, and I wouldn't dream of coming against her slightest wish.'

  "He urged his horse over until we were only a yard apart. `You must, Donald. You don't understand. I don't like letting out family secrets, but I'm going to have to in this case. Betty was very roughly treated by a man last year in the Fall. A guy who seemed to like her and then just walked out, without a word, and disappeared. I know you'll never speak of this to her, and she'd rather die than say anything to you. But I haven't been able to get her interested in things ever since. You're the first man she's liked from that time to this, and you've got to help me pull her out of this depression. Surely you've noticed how vague and dreamy she is? She's living in a world of unreality, trying to shut out unhappiness. I can't get her to see a doctor, and even if I could, it probably wouldn't do any good. What she needs is one decent man being kind to her in the same surroundings as she was made unhappy in. Can you see why I need you as a friend so badly?' He was damned earnest and it was impossible not to be touched.

  " `Well, that's all very well,' I mumbled, `but she's still dead set against my coming, you know. I simply can't come in the face of such opposition. You mentioned yourself as head of the family. Do I take it that your parents are dead? Because if so, then Betty is my hostess. It won't do, damn it all.'

  " `Now, look,' he said, `don't turn me down. By tomorrow morning she'll ask you herself, I swear. I promise that if she doesn't, the whole thing's off. Will you come if she asks you and give me a hand at cheering her up? And we are orphans, by the way, just us two.'

  "Of course I agreed. I was wild to come. To get leave would be easy. There was nothing much but routine at the embassy anyway, and mixing with people like the Waldrons was as much a part of my duties as going to any Fort Leavenworth maneuvers.

  "And sure enough, Betty rang me up at my Washington flat the next morning and apologized for her behavior the previous day. She sounded very dim and tired but perfectly all right. I asked her twice if she was sure she wanted my company, and she repeated that she did, still apologizing for the day before. She said she had felt feverish and didn't know why she'd spoken as she had. This was good enough for me, and so it was settled.

  "Thus in the last week in October, I found myself hunting the coverts of—well, call it the valley of Waldrondale. What a glorious, mad time it was! The late Indian summer lingered, and each cold night gave way to a lovely misty dawn. The main Waldron lands lay in the hollow of a spur of the Appalachian range. Apparently some early Waldron, an emigrant from Ireland during the ' 16, I gathered, had gone straight west into Indian territory and somehow laid claim to a perfectly immense tract of country. What is really odd is that the red men seemed to feel it was all fine, that he should do so.

  " `We always got along with our Indians," Canler told me once. `Look around the valley at the faces, my own included. There's some Indian blood in all of us. A branch of the lost Erie nation, before the Iroquois destroyed them, according to the family records.'

  "It was quite true that when one looked, the whole valley indeed appeared to have a family resemblance. The women were very pale, and both sexes were black haired and dark eyed, with lean, aquiline features. Many of them, apparently local farmers, rode with the hunt and fine riders they were, too, well mounted and fully familiar with field etiquette.

  "Waldrondale was a great, heart-shaped valley, of perhaps eight thousand acres. The Waldrons leased some of it to cousins and farmed some themselves. They owned still more land outside the actual valley, but that was all leased. It was easy to see that in Waldrondale itself they were actually rulers. Although both Betty and Can were called by their first names, every one of the valley dwellers was ready and willing to drop whatever he or she was doing at a moment's notice to oblige either of them in the smallest way. It was not subservience exactly, but instead almost an eagerness of the sort a monarch might have got in the days when kings were also sacred beings. Canler shrugged when I mentioned how
the matter struck me.

  " `We've just been here a long time, that's all. They've simply got used to us telling them what to do. When the first Waldron came over from Galway, a lot of retainers seem to have come with him. So it's not really a strictly normal American situation.' He looked lazily at me. `Hope you don't think we're too effete and baronial here, now that England's becoming so democratized?'

  —Not at all,' I said quickly and the subject was changed. There had been an unpleasant undertone in his speech, almost jeering, and for some reason he seemed rather irritated.

  "What wonderful hunting we had! The actual members of the hunt, those who wore the light green jackets, were only a dozen or so, mostly close relatives of Canler's and Betty's. When we had started the first morning at dawn, I'd surprised them all for I was then a full member of the Duke of Beaufort's pack, and as a joke more than anything else, I had brought the blue and yellow-lapelled hunting coat along. The joke was that I had been planning to show them, the Waldrons, one of our own variant colors all along, ever since I had heard about theirs. They were all amazed at seeing me not only not in black, but in `non-red,' so to speak. The little withered huntsman, a local fanner, named McColl, was absolutely taken aback and for some reason seemed frightened. He made a curious remark, of which I caught only two words, `Sam Haines,' and then made a sign which I had no trouble at all interpreting. Two fingers at either end of a fist have always been an attempt to ward off the evil eye, or some other malign spiritual influence. I said nothing at the time, but during dinner I asked Betty who `Sam Haines' was and what had made old McColl so nervous about my blue coat. Betty's reaction was even more peculiar. She muttered something about a local holiday and also that my coat was the `wrong color for an Englishman,' and then abruptly changed the subject. Puzzled, I looked up, to notice that all conversation seemed to have died at the rest of the big table. There were perhaps twenty guests, all the regular hunt members and some more besides from the outlying parts of the valley. I was struck by the intensity of the very similar faces, male and female, all staring at us, lean, pale and dark eyed, all with that coarse raven hair. For a moment I had a most peculiar feeling that I had blundered into a den of some dangerous creature or other, some pack animal perhaps, like a wolf. Then Canler laughed from the head of the table and conversation started again. The illusion was broken, as a thrown pebble shatters a mirrored pool of water, and I promptly forgot it.