The acid with which his clothes and corroding tissues were saturated burned into my wrists and arms. But I didn’t mind; it was the thought of that coffin, of where it was going that drove my brain toward madness.
But Bruton grew impatient.
“Get him in there! We’ve got the girl to deal with, too!” he growled, and striding over, he slammed the empty extinguisher against my head.
It didn’t knock me out. I don’t believe anything could have knocked me out then. But it stunned me for the moment necessary for them to lift me and fling me into the coffin. When they slammed the lid tight and I felt myself lifted, felt the carriage moving beneath me and suddenly heard the motors begin to sing their weird tune and heard the flames blast into the oven chamber, I tasted hell.
Then I felt it—the first blast of that terrific heat. Bruton had started the fire before shoving me in, wanting to hear me scream, I suppose. And scream I did. Yet even then, the thought of Lilly, lying drugged at the mercy of this fiend, was more agonizing than my own fate.
The carriage slammed against the front of the oven; the awful heat, blasting through the coffin walls, set the blood in my head boiling. I shrieked, beat my head against the coffin lid; and as I heaved up, the coils of the rope, eaten through by the acid, parted. My arms came free—came free too late to help me, adding instead a final fillip of ironic horror to what seemed my certain doom.
But something had happened. That last heave must have jolted the coffin sideward, for hands lifted it to steady it, and in the brief instant in which I felt them tense for the forward shove, I flung my whole weight sideward and slammed head and shoulders against the coffin’s side.
It tottered—and fell! Crashing edgewise to the floor, the catches of the lid came loose, and I was scrambling out, flinging myself upright to meet Porter Bruton’s charge.
He swung at me with the fire extinguisher, but I ducked the blow. My weight thudded against him and my clawed hands caught his throat. He fell backward and I went down on top of him. Before his men could spring to his aid, I bellowed into his purpling face.
“Keep them off or I’ll strangle you before they can drag me away!” I shouted.
I let up a little on the throat pressure, and he gasped a command that caused the men to freeze in their tracks. Then he snarled at me.
“All right, kill me! But they’ll kill you then, and Faustine, too. And what will happen to Lilly? Think of her, waking up buried alive in that coffin in the locked mausoleum!”
My hands, my whole rage-quivering body went rigid at that. It was the most horrible moment of all. To have miraculously escaped the flames, only to be faced with this ghastly choice! But then, was there a choice? Even if Lilly died in the shrieking delirium of the buried-alive, it was better than a lifetime of drugged slavery to this fiend.
With an animal snarl, I fell on him again, and this time my hate-steeled fingers sank to the bone in his throat. He screamed, and the men sprang. I ducked, pressed harder, knowing it was the end, knowing I must kill before I was killed.
But before they reached me, four rapid blasts of gunfire punctuated the din, followed by high-pitched howls of pain. I straightened, saw with incredulous eyes the witch-men groveling on the floor while Tom Carlin, smoking gun in hand, was lunging toward me.
“Tom, how did you happen—” I began.
“The lights,” he said. “Didn’t you mean to signal?”
“Lights?” I blinked. “I tried to cut them off, but—”
“But you got the wrong switch,” Tom said with a flash of sudden understanding. “You idiot, I’m talking about the lights that flood the grounds and building. I saw them on and came to see what was wrong.”
Things got a little shaky and confused after that, but one thought was still dominant in my mind. Tom told me later how I stumbled up with a mumbled, “Get Faustine to explain—” and staggered out.
I’m glad no one saw me then, for I must have looked the part of a mad ghoul, roving through the dark graveyard with an axe I had picked up somewhere. But I found what I sought—in the Grenfel vault—and when I smashed the coffin-lock and lifted her limp body out and held it against me to feel that faint heartbeat, sanity seemed to return to me for the first time in hours.
She came out of it all right, though we never learned exactly what he had used to drug her—perhaps the same drug he used on himself. Dr. Bruton hinted of some African drug which Porter had mixed with other chemicals. But Porter never told because he took cyanide before he could be brought to trial—and this time he really died.
Old Dr. Bruton was excused for his part in the plot. He had not dreamed, when he aided in the deception, that his son had planned more than an escape to save his life. And his attack on the fiend at the last had redeemed him.
Dead Sam Fleagle had been likewise a blind tool of the killer, having fallen for a tale that Porter was trying to escape murder at the hands of Macklin, and had allowed himself to be bribed into stealing the pauper’s corpse and helping with the substitution.
Oakvale is a quiet suburb again, though to say it has completely recovered from the horror might not be strictly true. Business isn’t so good at the crematorium, though Lilly and I, staid married people now, assure ourselves that things will soon pick up.
That, however, isn’t what bothers me. What bothers me is myself. I let morbid thoughts prey on my mind too much. You see we never did know just what it was that Professor Grenfel had discovered. The chances are he was simply crazed from overwork when he made that statement about the dead not really being dead at all until they’re killed in graves and ovens and with embalmers’ knives.
And Porter Bruton may have deluded himself into believing it, and that he knew the secret, too. But that’s not the point. The point is that if you can’t quit thinking about it, you’d better get out of the business I’m in. So it’s pretty likely that I’ll sell out my interest to Tom Carlin, and try my hand at something else.
THE DANCE OF THE DEAD
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe has been called “the greatest of all German poets and the outstanding figure of world literature since the Renaissance.” Besides being a poet, he was also a dramatist, novelist, lawyer, and scientist. His complete works fill more than 150 volumes. While he wrote in almost every field of science and his discoveries contributed to the theory of evolution, he is best known as the author of Faust, which he worked on for over thirty years and which has been described as “one of the greatest poetic and philosophic creations the world possesses.”
In this poem he illustrates the Totentanz, or the danse macabre, where the dead rise out of their graves at night to dance, prompting the cemetery’s caretaker to make the mistake of stealing a shroud from one of the dancers.
The warder he gazes at dead o’ the night
On the graveyards under him lying,
The moon into clearness throws all by her light,
The night with the daylight is vying.
There’s a stir in the graves, and forth from their tombs
The form of a man, then a woman next looms
In garments long trailing and snowy.
They stretch themselves out, and with eager delight
Join the bones for the revel and dancing—
Young and old, rich and poor, the lady and knight,
Their trains are a hindrance to dancing.
And since here by shame they no longer are bound,
They shuffle them off, and lo, strewn lie around
Their garments on each little hillock.
Here rises a shank, and a leg wobbles there
With lewd diabolical gesture;
And clatter and rattle of bones you might hear,
As of one beating sticks to a measure.
This seems to the warder a laughable game:
Then the tempter, low whispering, up to him came:
“In one of their shrouds go and wrap thee.”
’Twas done soon
as said; then he gained in wild flight
Concealment behind the church portal,
The moon all the while throws her bright beams of light
On the dance where they revel and sport all.
First one, then another, dispersed all are they,
And donning their shrouds steal the specters away,
And under the graves all is quiet.
But one of them stumbles and fumbles along,
’Midst the tombstones groping intently;
But none of his comrades have done him this wrong,
His shroud in the breeze ’gins to scent he.
He rattles the door of the tower, but can find
No entrance,—good luck to the warder behind!—
’Tis barred with blest crosses of metal.
His shroud he must have, or rest can he ne’er;
And so, without further preambles,
The old Gothic carving he grips then and there,
From turret to pinnacle scrambles.
Alas for the warder! all’s over, I fear;
From buttress to buttress in dev’lish career
He climbs like a long-legged spider.
The warder he trembles, and pale doth he look,
That shroud he would gladly be giving,
When piercing transfixed it a sharp-pointed hook!
He thought his last hour he was living.
Clouds cover already the vanishing moon,
With thunderous clang beats the clock a loud One—
Below lies the skeleton, shattered.
THE COFFIN-MAKER
Alexander Pushkin
Many scholars consider Alexander Pushkin to be Russia’s greatest poet and the founder of modern Russian literature. Some say he is more popular in Russia than Shakespeare is in the West. Many of his works gave voice to the suffering of the Russian people, but his political views got him into considerable trouble and his work was often censored. It took him five years to get permission to present his masterpiece—his drama Boris Godunov. His career was cut short at the age of thirty-seven, when he was killed in a duel.
The last of the effects of the coffin-maker, Adrian Prokhoroff, were placed upon the hearse, and a couple of sorry-looking jades dragged themselves along for the fourth time from Basmannaia to Nikitskaia, whither the coffin-maker was removing with all his household. After locking up the shop, he posted upon the door a placard announcing that the house was to be let or sold, and then made his way on foot to his new abode. On approaching the little yellow house, which had so long captivated his imagination, and which at last he had bought for a considerable sum, the old coffin-maker was astonished to find that his heart did not rejoice. When he crossed the unfamiliar threshold and found his new home in the greatest confusion, he sighed for his old hovel, where for eighteen years the strictest order had prevailed. He began to scold his two daughters and the servant for their slowness, and then set to work to help them himself. Order was soon established; the ark with the sacred images, the cupboard with the crockery, the table, the sofa, and the bed occupied the corners reserved for them in the back room; in the kitchen and parlor were placed the articles comprising the stock-in-trade of the master—coffins of all colors and of all sizes, together with cupboards containing mourning hats, cloaks and torches.
Over the door was placed a sign representing a fat Cupid with an inverted torch in his hand and bearing this inscription, “Plain and colored coffins sold and lined here; coffins also let out on hire, and old ones repaired.”
The girls retired to their bedroom; Adrian made a tour of inspection of his quarters, and then sat down by the window and ordered the tea-urn to be prepared.
The enlightened reader knows that Shakespeare and Walter Scott have both represented their gravediggers as merry and facetious individuals, in order that the contrast might more forcibly strike our imagination. Out of respect for the truth, we cannot follow their example, and we are compelled to confess that the disposition of our coffin-maker was in perfect harmony with his gloomy occupation. Adrian Prokhoroff was usually gloomy and thoughtful. He rarely opened his mouth, except to scold his daughters when he found them standing idle and gazing out of the window at the passersby, or to demand for his wares an exorbitant price from those who had the misfortune—and sometimes the good fortune—to need them.
Hence it was that Adrian, sitting near the window and drinking his seventh cup of tea, was immersed as usual in melancholy reflections. He thought of the pouring rain which, just a week before, had commenced to beat down during the funeral of the retired brigadier. Many of the cloaks had shrunk in consequence of the downpour, and many of the hats had been put quite out of shape. He foresaw unavoidable expenses, for his old stock of funeral dresses was in a pitiable condition. He hoped to compensate himself for his losses by the burial of old Trukhina, the shopkeeper’s wife, who for more than a year had been upon the point of death. But Trukhina lay dying at Rasgouliai, and Prokhoroff was afraid that her heirs, in spite of their promise, would not take the trouble to send so far for him, but would make arrangements with the nearest undertaker.
These reflections were suddenly interrupted by three Masonic knocks at the door.
“Who is there?” asked the coffin-maker.
The door opened, and a man, who at the first glance could be recognized as a German artisan, entered the room, and with a jovial air advanced towards the coffin-maker.
“Pardon me, respected neighbor,” said he in that Russian dialect which to this day we cannot hear without a smile; “Pardon me for disturbing you. . . . I wished to make your acquaintance as soon as possible. I am a shoemaker, my name is Gottlieb Schultz, and I live across the street, in that little house just facing your windows. Tomorrow I am going to celebrate my silver wedding, and I have come to invite you and your daughters to dine with us.”
The invitation was cordially accepted. The coffin-maker asked the shoemaker to seat himself and take a cup of tea, and thanks to the open-hearted disposition of Gottlieb Schultz, they were soon engaged in friendly conversation.
“How is business with you?” asked Adrian.
“Just so-so,” replied Schultz. “I cannot complain. My wares are not like yours: the living can do without shoes, but the dead cannot do without coffins.”
“Very true,” observed Adrian, “ but if a living person hasn’t anything to buy shoes with, you cannot find fault with him, he goes about bare-footed; but a dead beggar gets his coffin for nothing.”
In this manner the conversation was carried on between them for some time; at last the shoemaker rose and took leave of the coffin-maker, renewing his invitation.
The next day, exactly at twelve o’clock, the coffin-maker and his daughters issued from the doorway of their newly purchased residence, and directed their steps towards the abode of their neighbor. I will not stop to describe the Russian caftan of Adrian Prokhoroff, nor the European clothes of Akoulina and Daria, deviating in this respect from the usual custom of modern novelists. But I do not think it superfluous to observe that they both had on the yellow cloaks and red shoes which they were accustomed to don on solemn occasions only.
The shoemaker’s little dwelling was filled with guests, consisting chiefly of German artisans with their wives and foremen. Of the Russian officials there was present but one, Yourko the Finn, a watchman, who, in spite of his humble calling, was the special object of the host’s attention. For twenty-five years he had faithfully discharged the duties of postilion of Pogorelsky. The conflagration of 1812, which destroyed the ancient capital, destroyed also his little yellow watch-house. But immediately after the expulsion of the enemy, a new one appeared in its place, painted grey and with white Doric columns, and Yourko began again to pace to and fro before it, with his axe and grey coat of mail. He was known to the greater part of the Germans who lived near the Nikitskaia Gate, and some of them had even spent the night from Sunday to Monday beneath his roof.
Adrian immediately made himself acquainted w
ith him, as with a man whom, sooner or later, he might have need of, and when the guests took their places at the table, they sat down beside each other. Herr Schultz and his wife, and their daughter Lotchen, a young girl of seventeen, did the honors of the table and helped the cook to serve. The beer flowed in streams; Yourko ate like four, and Adrian in no way yielded to him; his daughters, however, stood upon their dignity. The conversation, which was carried on in German, gradually grew more and more boisterous. Suddenly the host requested a moment’s attention, and uncorking a sealed bottle, he said with a loud voice in Russian, “ To the health of my good Louise!”
The champagne foamed. The host tenderly kissed the fresh face of his partner, and the guests drank noisily to the health of the good Louise.
“To the health of my amiable guests!” exclaimed the host, uncorking a second bottle; and the guests thanked him by draining their glasses once more.
Then followed a succession of toasts. The health of each individual guest was drunk; they drank to the health of Moscow and to quite a dozen little German towns; they drank to the health of all corporations in general and of each in particular; they drank to the health of the masters and foremen. Adrian drank with enthusiasm and became so merry, that he proposed a facetious toast to himself. Suddenly one of the guests, a fat baker, raised his glass and exclaimed, “ To the health of those for whom we work, our customers!”
This proposal, like all the others, was joyously and unanimously received. The guests began to salute each other; the tailor bowed to the shoemaker, the shoemaker to the tailor, the baker to both, the whole company to the baker, and so on. In the midst of these mutual congratulations, Yourko exclaimed, turning to his neighbor,“Come, little father! Drink to the health of your corpses!”
The Book of the Living Dead Page 26
