If it were not this particular story, then it was another, just as gruesome, just as starkly mystic, just as ancient-dark.
And what could one do with that? Blaine wondered. Where would one find an answer? For the belief — the will to believe — was engrained deeply in the human fiber. Not entirely, either, in the matrix of the present situation, but in the blood and bone of Man clear back to the caves. There was in the soul of Man a certain deadly fascination with all things that were macabre. The situation as it stood had been grasped willingly, almost eagerly, by men for whom the world had become a rather tame and vapid place with no terror in it beyond the brute force terror of atomic weapons and the dread uncertainty of unstable men in power.
It had all begun quite innocently as the people grabbed at the new principles of PK for their entertainment and their enjoyment. Almost overnight the fact of mental power had become a fad that had overwhelmed the world. Night clubs had changed their names, there had been startling fashion trends, new teen-age cants had risen, TV had gone overboard with its horror films, and the presses had poured out billions of volumes dealing with the supernatural. There had been new cults, and older cults had flourished. The ouija board came back after two centuries of hiding in the mists of an earlier age which had played with ghosts for kicks but had given up when it had found that you could not play with the spirit world. You either believed in it or you didn’t and there was no middle ground.
There had been quacks and there had been earnest men, considerably deluded, who had made names and fortunes from the fad. Manufacturers had turned out carload after carload of novelties and equipment for the pursuance of this new fad, or new hobby, or new study or religion — the specific term would apply in direct proportion to the seriousness with which each individual might consider it.
It all had been wrong, of course — for paranormal kinetics was not supernatural. Nor was it macabre, nor did it deal with ghost or devil or any of the other of the hordes of forgotten things which came charging happily out of the Middle Ages. It was, instead, a new dimension to Man’s abilities — but the enamored people, agog at this new toy, had adopted it wholeheartedly in all misinterpretation.
As they always did, they had overdone it. They had played so hard at their misinterpretation that they had forgotten, despite warning after warning, that it was misinterpretation. They finally had come to believe in all the weirdness and all the fantasy; they finally regarded it as the gospel truth. Where there had been fun there now were leering fauns; where there had been gags there now were goblins and ghosts.
So the reaction had set in, the inevitable reaction of fanatical reformers, accompanied by the grim, horse-faced cruelty and blindness that goes with all fanatical reform. Now a grim and frightened people hunted down, as a holy mission, their paranormal neighbors.
There were a lot of these, but they were in hiding now or in masquerade. There had always been a lot of them through all the human ages, but mostly unsuspecting, never dreaming that they had powers within themselves fit to reach the stars. They were the people who had been just a little queer, a bit discombobulated and had been regarded tolerantly as harmless by their neighbors. There had been a few, of course, who had been in part effective, but even in their effectiveness they had not believed, or believing, they had used their strange powers poorly, for they could not understand them. And in the later years, when they might have understood it, none of them had dared, for the tribal god of science had called it all damn foolishness.
But when the stubborn men in Mexico had demonstrated that it was not all damn foolishness, then the people dared. Those who had the abilities then felt free to use them, and developed them by use. Others who never suspected that they had them found to their surprise they did and they used them, too. In some cases the abilities were used to good and solid purpose, but in other cases they were wrongly used or used for shallow purpose. And there were those, as well, who practiced this new-found art of theirs for unworthy ends, and a very few, perhaps, who used it in all evil.
Now the good gray moralists and the pulpit-pounding, crag-browed, black-attired reformers were out to quash PK for the evil it had done. They used the psychology of fear; they played upon the natural superstitions; they used the rope and brand and the quick shot in the night and they spread a fear across the land that one could smell in the very air — a thick, foul scent that clogged the nostrils and brought water to the eyes.
“You are lucky,” Riley said to Blaine. “Not fearing them, you may be safe from them. A dog will bite a man who is afraid of it, but lick the hand of one who is not afraid.”
“The answer’s easy, then,” Blaine told him… “Do not be afraid.”
But it was impossible advice to a man like Riley.
Night after night he sat on the right-hand seat as Blaine drove through the darkness, shivering in terror like a spooky hound, grasping the gun loaded with its silver buckshot.
There were alarms and frights — the swoop of owl, the running of a fox across the road, an imagined roadside shadow, all became an evil out of some darker night, while the howling of coyotes became the wailing of a banshee, hunting for a victim.
But there was more than imagined terror. There was the shadow shaped like a man, but a man no longer, twisting and turning in a lazy dance from a high branch above the thicket; there was the blackened ruins of the roadside farm, with the smoke-streaked chimney standing like an accusing finger pointing up to heaven; there was the smoke from the tiny campfire that Blaine stumbled on as he followed up a creek hunting down a spring while Riley wrestled with the balky spark plugs. Blaine had been moving quietly, and they had heard him just too late to vanish before he caught sight of them, fleeing like wraiths up the timbered slopes of the looming mountain spur.
He had stepped into the tiny, tramped-down circle of the camp site, with its small cooking fire and the skillet on its side, with four half-cooked trout lying in the trampled grass, with the wadded blankets and the comforter that had served as beds, with the rudely built brush shelter as refuge from the rain.
He had knelt beside the fire and righted the skillet. He had picked up the fish and brushed the twigs and grass off them and replaced them in the pan.
And he had thought to call out to the hiders, to try to reassure them, but he knew that it was useless, for they were past all trust.
They were hunted animals. Hunted animals in this great United States which for years had valued freedom, which in its later years had stood as a forthright champion before the entire world for the rights of man.
He had knelt there, torn by an anger and a pity, and he felt the smarting of his eyes. He bunched up his fists and rubbed at his eyes, and the moist knuckles smeared streaks of dirt across his face.
He had stayed there for a while, but finally he had risen and gone down the creek again, forgetting that he had hunted for a spring, which no doubt had been only a few feet from the camp.
When he got back to the truck, he did not mention what he’d found to Riley.
They drove across the deserts and labored across the mountains and finally came to the great high plains where the wind came knifing down without a hill to stop it, without a tree to break it, a naked stretch of land that lay flat and hard to a far horizon.
Blaine rode in the seat alongside Riley, slouched and relaxed against the jolting of the truck. The sun beat down, and the wind was dry, and off to the north dust devils rose and spun above a dried-up river bed.
Riley drove hunched tight against the wheel, with his arms braced against the chuckholes and the ruts. His face was tense and at times a nervous tic twitched the muscles of his cheek.
Even in the daytime, Blaine thought, the man is still afraid, still runs his endless race with darkness.
Had it to do, he wondered, with the cargo in the truck? Not once had Riley said what he was hauling, not once had he inspected it. There was a heavy padlock on the rear door of the rig, and the padlock clanged and jangled as the truck lumbere
d on the road.
There had been a time or two when Blaine had been on the verge of asking, but there had been a certain reticence that had prevented it. Not anything, perhaps, that Riley had said or done or any way he’d acted, but, rather, his studied casualness in all these areas.
And after all, Blaine told himself, it was none of his affair. He did not care what might be in the truck. His only interest was in the truck itself; with every turn of a wheel it was carrying him where he had to go.
Riley said: “If we get a good run tonight, we’ll reach the river in the morning.”
“The Missouri?”
Riley nodded. “If we don’t break down again. If we make good time.”
But that night they met the witches.
FOURTEEN
The first they saw of them was a flicker in the fan of light the headlamps threw out along the road and then they saw them flying in the moonlight. Not flying, actually, for they had no wings, but moving through the air as a fish would move through water, and graceful as only flying things can be.
There was a moment when they might have been moths flying in the lights or night-swooping birds diving in the sky, but once the mind had its instant of utter disbelief and after that, of human rationalization, there was no doubt of what they were.
They were humans flying. They were levitators. They were witches and there was a coven of them.
In the seat beside him, Blaine saw Riley thrust the shotgun out the open window. Blaine slammed on the brakes.
The gun went off, the sound of the report blasting in the cab like a thunderbolt.
The car skidded to a halt, slantwise across the road. Blaine grabbed at Riley’s shoulder and jerked him off his balance. With the other hand he jerked the gun away.
He caught a glimpse of Riley’s face, and the man was yammering. His jaw went up and down in a devil’s tattoo and there were little flecks of foam at each corner of his mouth. His eyes were wild and rolling and his face was stiff, with the muscles bunched and tensed, like a grotesque mask. His hooked fingers made clawing motions to get back the gun.
“Snap out of it!” roared Blaine. “They’re only levitators.”
But the word meant nothing to a man like Riley. All reason and all understanding were lost in the roll of fearful thunder that hammered in his brain.
And even as he spoke to Riley, Blaine became aware of voices in the night — soundless voices reaching out to him, a medley of voices that were talking to him.
Friend — -one of us is hit (a line of oozing red across a shapely shoulder) — not bad — he has (a gun with its muzzle limp and drooping and turning suddenly into a rather melancholy and very phallic symbol). Safe — our friend has the gun. Let us get the other (a snarling dog backed into a corner, a skunk with its tail uplifted, a rattler coiled and set to strike).
Wait, yelled Blaine. Wait! Everything’s all right. There’ll be no more shooting.
He pressed down with his elbow against the door latch, and the door swung open. He pushed Riley from him and half fell out of the cab, still clutching the gun. He broke the weapon, and the shells jumped out; he threw the gun into the road and backed against the truck.
Suddenly the night was deadly silent except for the sounds of moaning and of wailing that came from Riley in the cab.
Everything is clear, said Blaine. There is no more danger.
They came plunging down out of the sky, as if they might be jumping from some hidden platform, but they landed lightly on their feet.
They moved slowly forward, catfooted in the night, and they were silent now.
That was a damn fool thing to do, Blaine told them. Next time one of you will get your head blown off (a headless human walking casually with the stump of neck frothing furiously).
He saw that they were young, not out of their teens, and that they wore what appeared to be bathing suits and he caught the sense of fun and the scent of prank.
They moved in cautiously, and he sought for other signs, but there were no other signs.
Who are you? one asked.
Shepherd Blaine of Fishhook.
And you are going?
Up to South Dakota.
In this truck?
And with this man, said Blaine. I want him left alone.
He took a shot at us. He hit Marie.
Not bad, said Marie. Just a scratch is all.
He’s a frightened man, said Blaine. He’s using silver shot.
He sensed the merriment of them at the thought of silver shot.
And caught the weirdness of the situation, the moonlit night and the deserted road, the car slewed across the highway, the lonely wind that moaned across the prairie, and the two of them, he and Riley, encircled, not by Sioux nor by Comanche nor by Blackfeet, but by a ring of paranormal teen-agers out on a midnight lark.
And who was there to blame or censure them? he asked himself. If in this small action of defiance they found some measure of self-assertion in their hunted lives, if in this manner they snatched at something resembling human dignity, it was then no more than a very human action and not to be condemned.
He studied the faces, the ones that he could see, indistinct in the moon-and-headlamp-light, and there was indecision in them — faces on hair trigger.
From the cab still came the moaning of a man in mental agony.
Then: Fishhook? (The towered buildings on the hill, the acre upon acre of them, massive, majestic, inspiring . . .)
That is right, said Blaine.
A girl moved out of the huddled group and walked close to Blaine. She held out her hand.
Friend, she said. We had not expected one. All of us are sorry that we troubled you.
Blaine put out his hand and felt the firm, strong pressure of young fingers.
We do not often find someone on the road at night, said another one.
Just having fun, another said. There’s little chance for fun.
I know how little chance, said Blaine. I’ve seen how little chance.
We halloween, still another said.
Halloween? Oh, yes, I see. (A fist banging on a closed shutter, a garden gate hanging in a tree, a hex sign upside down.)
It’s good for them. They’ve got it coming to them.
I agree, said Blaine. But it’s dangerous.
Not very. They are all too scared.
But it doesn’t help the situation.
Mister, there is nothing that can help.
But Fishhook? asked the girl who stood in front of Blaine.
He studied her and saw that she was beautiful — blue eyes and golden hair and the sort of shape that in the ancient days would have won her beauty contests, one of the old paganisms that had been happily forgotten in the rush to PK fads.
I cannot tell you, said Blaine. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.
Trouble? Danger?
Not at the moment, no.
We could help.
No need, making it as casual as he could, as unworried as he could.
We could take you anywhere you wished.
I’m not a levitator.
No need for you to be. We could (himself flying through the air, dragged along by two levitators, each hanging to an arm).
Blaine shuddered. No, thanks. I think I’d rather not.
Someone opened up the door of the cab, and another one reached in and hurled Riley to the ground.
The trucker crawled along the ground on hands and knees and sobbed.
Leave him alone! yelled Blaine.
The girl turned around. Her thoughts were level, sharp: Keep away from him! Don’t touch him! Don’t do a thing to him.
But, Anita . . .
Not a thing, she said.
He’s a dirty reefer. He’s using silver shot.
No!
They backed away.
We’ll have to go, Anita said to Blaine. Will you be all right?
With him, you mean?
She nodded.
I can handle him, he told her.
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My name is Anita Andrews. I live in Hamilton. My phone number is 276. Tattoo it.
Tattooed, said Blaine, showing her the words and numbers.
If you need help . . .
I’ll call.
Promise?
Promise (cross upon a throbbing heart).
Riley lunged and had the gun, was staggering to his feet, a hand groping in his pocket for a shell.
Blaine flattened in a dive. He caught the man just above the knees, his shoulder slamming hard, one arm about the body, the other slashing at the gun and missing.
And as he leaped, he yelled: Get out of here! Every one of you!
He hit the ground and skidded, face down, on the broken pavement. He felt the shattered blacktop scraping on his flesh, tearing at his clothes. But he still kept his grip on Riley and dragged the man down with him.
The skidding stopped, and Blaine groped blindly for the gun, and the gun barrel came lashing down out of the darkness and struck him across the ribs. He swore and grasped for it, but Riley had it raised again for another blow. Blaine punched out desperately in the darkness, and his fist caught yielding flesh that grunted at the blow. The gun thudded down, missing his face by the fraction of an inch.
His hand snaked out and grasped it and jerked, twisting as he jerked, and the gun came free.
Blaine rolled, carrying the gun with him, and scrambled to his feet.
Out at the edge of light, he saw Riley coming in a bull rush, with his arms outspread, with his shoulders bunched, his mouth a snarling slit slashed across his face.
Blaine lifted the gun and flung it out into the darkness with Riley almost on him. He sidestepped, but not quite far enough. One of Riley’s hamlike hands caught him on the hip. Blaine spun with the hand and sidestepped again. Riley tried to check his rush but seemed unable to. He twisted his body frantically, but his momentum drove him forward and he slammed with a resounding whack into the front end of the truck.
He folded then and slid into a heap. Blaine stood watching him and there was no motion in the man.
The night was silent. There were just the two of them. All the rest had gone. He and Riley were alone with the battered truck.
Time is the Simplest Thing Page 10
