The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  I moved then to Julia’s door and waited for several moments. The odor seemed stronger there, but I heard no new sounds.

  I rapped softly on the dark wood. For a moment it seemed that I heard someone stirring within, but only for a moment. I knocked again.

  “Julia?” I called out. “It’s me Merle.”

  Nothing.

  I knocked louder.

  Something fell with a crash. I tried the doorknob. Locked.

  I twisted and jerked and tore the doorknob, the lock plate, and the entire locking mechanism free. I moved immediately to my left then, past the hinged edge of the door and the frame. I extended my left hand and applied gentle pressure to the upper panel with my fingertips.

  I moved the door a few inches inward and paused. No new sounds ensued, and nothing but a slice of wall and floor came into view, with narrow glimpses of a watercolor, the red sofa, the green rug. I eased the door open a little farther. More of the same. And the odor was even stronger.

  I took a half step to my right and applied a steady pressure.

  Nothingnothingnothing . . .

  I snatched my hand away when she came into view. Lying there. Across the room. Bloody . . .

  There was blood on tile floor, the rug, and a bloody disarray near the corner off to my left. Upset furniture, torn cushions . . .

  I suppressed an impulse to rush forward. I took one slow step and then another, all of my senses alert. I crossed the threshold. There was nothing else/no one else in the room. Frakir tightened about my wrist. I should have said something then, but my mind was elsewhere.

  I approached and knelt at her side. I felt sick. From the doorway I had not been able to see that half of her face and her right arm were missing. She was not breathing and her carotid was silent. She had on a torn and bloodied peach-colored robe; there was a blue pendant about her neck.

  The blood that had spilled beyond the rug onto the hardwood floor was smeared and tracked. They were not human footprints, however, but large, elongated, three-toed things, well padded, clawed.

  A draft of which I had been only half-consciously aware of coming from the opened bedroom door at my back was suddenly diminished, as the odor intensified. There came another quick pulsing at my wrist. There was no sound, though. It was absolutely silent, but I knew that it was there.

  I spun up out of my kneeling position into a crouch, turning

  I saw a large mouthful of big teeth, bloody lips curled back around them. They lined the muzzle belonging to several hundred pounds of doglike creature covered with coarse, moldy-looking yellow fur. Its ears were like clump of fungi, its yellow-orange eyes wide and feral.

  As I had no doubt whatever concerning its intentions I hurled the doorknob, which I had been clutching half consciously for the past minute. It glanced off the bony ridge above its left eye without noticeable effect.

  Still soundlessly the thing sprang at me.

  Not even time for a word to Frakir . . .

  People who work in slaughterhouses know that there is a spot on an animal’s forehead to be found by drawing an imaginary line from the right ear to the left eye and another from the left ear to the right eye. They aim the killing blow an inch or two above the junction of this X. My uncle taught me that. He didn’t work in a slaughterhouse, though. He just knew how to kill things.

  So I spun forward and to the side as it sprang, and I struck a hammer blow at the death spot: It moved even faster than I’d anticipated, however, and when my fist struck it, it was already rushing by Its neck muscles helped it to absorb the force of my blow.

  This drew the first sound from it, though—a yelp. It shook its head and turned with great speed then, and it was at me again. Now a low, rumbling growl came up from its chest and its leap was high. I knew that I was not going to be able to sidestep this one.

  My uncle had also taught me how to grab a dog by the flesh on the sides of its neck and under the jaws. You need a good grip if it’s a big one, and you’ve got to get it just right. I had no real choice at the moment. If I tried a kick and missed it would probably take off my foot.

  My hands shot forward and snaked upward and I braced myself when we met. I was sure it outweighed me and I had to meet its momentum as well.

  I’d had visions of losing fingers or a hand, but I got in under the jaw, caught hold and squeezed. I kept my arms extended and leaned into the impact. I was shaken by the force of its lunge, but I was able to maintain my grip and absorb it.

  As I listened to the growls and regarded the slavering muzzle a foot or so away from my face I realized that I hadn’t thought much beyond this point. With a dog, you might be able to bash its head against anything hard and handy; its carotids are too deeply buried to rely on direct pressure to take it out. But this thing was strong and my grip was already beginning to slip against its frantic twisting. As I held its jaws away from me and kept pushing it upward, I also realized that it was taller than I was when extended along the vertical. I could try for a kick at its soft underside, but I would probably go off balance as well as lose my grip, and then my groin would be exposed to its teeth.

  But it twisted free of my left hand, and I had no choice but to use my right or lose it. So I pushed as hard as I could and retreated again. I had been looking for a weapon, any weapon, but there was nothing handy that would serve.

  It Lunged again, coming for my throat, coming too fast and high for me to manage a kick to its head. I couldn’t get out of its way either.

  Its forelegs were level with my midriff, and I hoped that my uncle had been right about this one too, as I seized them and twisted backward and inward with all of my strength, dropping to one knee to avoid those jaws, chin lowered to protect my throat, my head drawn back. Bones popped and crunched as I twisted and its head lowered almost immediately to attack my wrists. But by then I was already rising, thrusting forward, springing up.

  It went over backward, twisted, and almost caught itself. When its paws struck the floor, however, it made a sound halfway between a whimper and a snarl and collapsed forward.

  I was about to try for another blow to the skull when it recovered its footing, moving faster than I’d thought it could. It raised its right foreleg immediately upon standing and balanced itself on three legs, still growling eyes fixed on my own, saliva dampening its lower jaw. I moved slightly to my left, certain that it was about to rush me yet again, angling my bay, positioning myself in a way that no one had taught me, because I do occasionally have original thoughts.

  It was a little slower when it came for me this time. Maybe I could have gone for the skull and gotten it. I don’t know because I didn’t try. I seized it once more by the neck, and this time it was familiar territory. It would not pull away as it had before in the few moments I needed. Without breaking its momentum I turned and dropped low and thrust and pulled, adding some guidance to its trajectory:

  It turned in midair, its back striking the window. With a shattering, splintering sound it passed through, taking most of the frame, the curtain and the curtain rod along with it.

  I heard it hit three stories below. When I rose and looked out I saw it twitch a few times and grow still, there on the concrete patio where Julia and I had often had a midnight beer.

  I returned to Julia’s side and held her hand. I began to realize my anger. Someone had to be behind this. Could it be S again? Was this my April 30 present for this year? I’d a feeling that it was and I wanted to do unto S as I had just done unto the creature that had performed the act. There had to be a reason. There ought to be a clue.

  I rose, went to the bedroom, fetched a blanket, and covered Julia with it. Mechanically, I wiped my fingerprints from the fallen doorknob as I began my search of the apartment.

  I found them on the mantelpiece between the clock and a stack of paperbacks dealing with the occult. The moment I touched them and felt their coldness I realized that this was even more serious than I had thought. They had to be the thing of mine she’d had that I would
be needing—only they were not really mine, though as I riffled through I recognized them on one level and was puzzled by them on another. They were cards, Trumps, like yet unlike any I had ever seen before.

  It was not a complete deck. Just a few cards, actually, and strange. I slipped them into my side pocket quickly when I heard the siren. Time for solitaire later.

  I tore down the stairs and out the back door, encountering no one. Fido still lay where he had fallen and all the neighborhood dogs were discussing it. I vaulted fences and trampled flowerbeds, cutting through backyards on my way over to the side street where I was parked.

  Minutes later I was miles away, trying to scrub the bloody pawprints from my memory.

  2

  I drove away from the bay until I came to a quiet, well-treed area. I stopped the car and got out and walked.

  After a long while I located a small, deserted park. I seated myself on one of the benches, took out the Trumps and studied them. A few seemed half familiar and the rest were totally puzzling. I stared too long at one and seemed to hear a siren song. I put them down. I did not recognize the style. This was extremely awkward.

  I was reminded of the story of a world-famous toxicologist who inadvertently ingested a poison for which there was no antidote. The question foremost in his mind was, Had he taken a lethal dose? He looked it up in a classic textbook that he himself had written years before. According to his own book he had had it. He checked another, written by an equally eminent professional. According to that one he had taken only about half the amount necessary to do in someone of his body mass. So he sat down and waited, hoping he’d been wrong.

  I felt that way because I am an expert on these things. I thought that I knew the work of everyone who might be capable of producing such items. I picked up one of the cards, which held a peculiar, almost familiar fascination for me—depicting a small grassy point jutting out into a quiet lake, a sliver of something bright, glistening, unidentifiable, off to the right. I exhaled heavily upon it, fogging it for an instant, and struck it with my fingernail. It rang like a glass bell and flickered to life. Shadows swam and pulsed as the scene inched into evening. I passed my hand over it and it grew still once again—back to lake, grasses, daytime.

  Very distant. Time’s stream flowed faster there in relationship to my present situation. Interesting.

  I groped for an old pipe with which I sometimes indulge myself, filled it, lit it, puffed it, and mused. The cards were functional all right, not some clever imitations, and though I did not understand their purpose, that was not my main concern at the moment.

  Today was April 30, and I had faced death once again. I had yet to confront the person who had been playing with my life. S had again employed a proxy menace. And that was no ordinary dog I had destroyed. And the cards . . . where had Julia gotten them and why had she wanted me to have them? The cards and the dog indicated a power beyond that of an ordinary person. All along I had thought I’d been the subject of the unwelcome attention of some psycho, whom I could deal with at my leisure. But this morning’s events put an entirely different complexion on the case. It meant that I had one hell of an enemy somewhere.

  I shuddered. I wanted to talk to Luke again, get him to reconstruct their conversation of the previous evening, see whether Julia had said anything that might provide me with a clue. I’d like to go back and search her apartment more carefully, too. But that was out of the question. The cops had pulled up in front of the place as I was driving away. There’d be no getting back in for some time.

  Rick. There was Rick Kinsky, the guy she’d begun seeing after we’d broken up. I knew him on sight—a thin, mustached, cerebral sort, thick glasses and all. He managed a bookstore I’d visited once or twice. I didn’t know him beyond that; though. Perhaps he could tell me something about the cards and how Julia might have gotten into whatever situation it was that had cost her her life.

  I brooded a little longer, then put the cards away. I wasn’t about to fool with them any further. Not yet. First, I wanted as much information as I could get.

  I headed back for the car. As I walked I reflected that this April 30 wasn’t over. Suppose S didn’t really consider this morning’s encounter as aimed directly at me? In that case there was plenty of time for another attempt. I also had a feeling that if I began getting close S would forget about dates and go for my throat whenever there was an opening. I resolved not to let my guard down at all henceforth, to live as in a state of siege until this matter was settled. And all of my energies were now going to be dire toward settling it. My well-being seemed to require the destruction of my enemy, very soon.

  Should I seek counsel? I wonder. And if so, from whom? There was an awful lot I still didn’t know about my heritage . . .

  No. Not yet, I decided. I had to make every effort to handle things myself. Besides the fact that I wanted to, I needed the practice. It’s necessary to be able to deal with nasty matters where I come from.

  I drove, looking for a pay phone and trying not to think of Julia as I had last seen her. A few clouds blew in from the west. My watch ticked on my wrist, next to unseen Frakir. The news on the radio was international and cheerless.

  I stopped in a drugstore and used a phone there to try to reach Luke at his motel. He wasn’t in. So I had a club sandwich and a milkshake in the dining area and tried again afterward. Still out.

  Okay. Catch him later. I headed into town. The Browserie, as I recalled, was the name of the bookstore where Rick worked.

  I drove by and saw that the place was open. I parked a couple of blocks up the street and walked back. I had been alert all of the way across town, but could not detect any sign that I was being followed.

  A cool breeze touched me as I walked, hinting of rain. I saw Rick through the store’s window, seated at his high counter reading a book. There was no one else in sight in the place.

  A small bell jangled above the door as I entered, and he looked up. He straightened and his eyes widened as I approached.

  “Hi,” I said, pausing then for a moment. “Rick, I don’t know whether you remember me.”

  “You’re Merle Corey,” he stated softly.

  “Right.” I leaned on the counter and he drew back. “I wondered whether you might be able to help me with a little information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “It’s about Julia,” I said.

  “Look,” he answered, “I never went near her until after you two had broken up.”

  “Huh? No, no, you don’t understand. I don’t care about that. It’s more recent information that I need. She’d been trying to get in touch with me this past week and—”

  He shook his head:

  “I haven’t heard from her for a couple of months.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, we stopped seeing each other. Different interests, you know?”

  “Was she okay when you—stopped seeing each other?”

  “I guess so.”

  I stared straight into his eyes and he winced. I didn’t like that “I guess so.” I could see that he was a little afraid of me so I decided to push it.

  “What do you mean `different interests’?” I asked.

  “Well, she got a little weird, you know?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  He licked his lips and looked away “I don’t want any trouble,” he stated.

  “I’d rather not indulge either. What was the matter?”

  “Well,” he said, “she was scared.”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “Uh—of you.”

  “Me? That’s ridiculous. I never did anything to frighten her. What did she say?”

  “She never said it in so many words, but I could tell, whenever your name came up. Then she developed all these funny interests.”

  “You’ve lost me,” I said. “Completely. She got weird? She got funny interests? What kind? What was going on? I really don’t understand, and I’d like to.”<
br />
  He got to his feet and headed for the rear of the store, glancing at me as if I should follow him. I did.

  He slowed when he reached a section full of books on natural healing and organic farming and martial arts and herbal remedies and having babies at home, but he went on past it into the hardcore occult section.

  “Here,” he said, halting. “She borrowed a few of these, brought them back, borrowed a few more.”

  I shrugged.

  “That’s all? That’s hardly weird.”

  “But she really got into it.”

  “So do a lot of people.”

  “Let me finish,” he went on. “She started with theosophy, even attended meetings of a local group. She got turned off on it fairly quick, but by then she’d met some people with different connections. Pretty soon she was hanging around with Sufis, Gurdjieffians, even a shaman.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “No yoga?”

  “No yoga. When I asked her that same thing she said that it was power she was after, not samadhi. Anyhow, she just kept fording stranger and stranger acquaintances. The atmosphere got too rarefied for me, so I said good-bye.”

  “I wonder why?” I mused.

  “Here,” he said, “take a look at this one.”

  He tossed me a black book and stepped back. I caught it. It was a copy of the Bible. I opened it to the publishing credits page.

  “Something special about this edition?” I asked.

  He sighed.

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  He took it back and replaced it on the shelf.

  “Just a minute,” he said.

  He returned to the counter and took a cardboard sign from a shelf beneath it. It read JUST STEPPED OUT: WE’LL REOPEN AT and there was a clock face beneath it with movable hands. He set them to indicate a time a half hour hence and went and hung the sign in the door’s window. Then he shot the bolt and gestured for me to follow him to a room in the rear.