Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural

by Marvin Kaye (ed. )

Up sashays Nan with her feathery fan

  From Floradora bright;

  She never hung for Caesar Young,

  But she’s dancing with him tonight.

  Here’s the bulging hip and the foam-flecked lip

  Of the mad dog, Vincent Coll,

  And over there that ill-met pair,

  Becker and Rosenthal.

  Here’s Legs and Dutch and a dozen such

  Of braggart bullies and brutes,

  And each one bends ’neath the weight of friends

  Who are wearing concrete suits.

  Now the damned make way for the double damned

  Who emerge with shuffling pace

  From the nightmare zone of persons unknown,

  With neither name nor face.

  And poor Dot King to one doth cling,

  Joined in a ghastly jig,

  While Elwell doth jape at a goblin shape

  And tickle it with his wig.

  See Rothstein pass like breath on a glass,

  The original Black Sox kid;

  He riffles the pack, riding piggyback

  On the killer whose name he hid.

  And smeared like brine on a slavering swine,

  Starr Faithful, once so fair,

  Drawn from the sea to her debauchee,

  With the salt sand in her hair.

  And still they come, and from the bum

  The icy sweat doth spray;

  His white lips scream as in a dream,

  “For God’s sake, let’s away!

  If ever I meet with Pinball Pete

  I will not seek his gore,

  Lest a treadmill grim I must trudge with him

  On the hideous thirteenth floor.”

  “For you I rejoice,” said Maxie’s voice,

  “And I bid you go in peace,

  But I am late for a dancing date

  That nevermore will cease.

  So remember, friend, as your way you wend,

  That it would have happened to you,

  But I turned the heat on Pinball Pete;

  You see—I had a daughter, too!”

  The bum reached out and he tried to shout,

  But the door in his face was slammed,

  And silent as stone he rode down alone

  From the floor of the double damned.

  DYLAN THOMAS (1914—53), the great Welsh poet, wrote a number of less familiar prose pieces, many of them rescued from obscurity by his compatriot, Emlyn Williams, who reads Thomas superbly in his one-man show and on discs. “The Tree” comes from Thomas’ collection, Adventures in the Skin Trade.

  The Tree

  By Dylan Thomas

  Rising from the house that faced the Jarvis hills in the long distance, there was a tower for the day-birds to build in and for the owls to fly around at night. From the village the light of the tower window shone like a glowworm through the panes; but the room under the sparrows’ nests was rarely lit; webs were spun over its unwashed ceilings; it stared over twenty miles of the up-and-down county, and the corners kept their secrets where there were claw marks in the dust.

  The child knew the house from roof to cellar; he knew the irregular lawns and the gardener’s shed where flowers burst out of their jars; but he could not find the key that opened the door of the tower.

  The house changed to his moods, and a lawn was the sea or the shore or the sky or whatever he wished it. When a lawn was a sad mile of water, and he was sailing on a broken flower down the waves, the gardener would come out of his shed near the island of bushes. He, too, would take a stalk, and sail. Straddling a garden broom, he would fly wherever the child wished. He knew every story from the beginning of the world.

  In the beginning, he would say, there was a tree.

  What kind of tree?

  The tree where that blackbird’s whistling.

  A hawk, a hawk, cried the child.

  The gardener would look up at the tree, seeing a monstrous hawk perched on a bough or an eagle swinging in the wind.

  The gardener loved the Bible. When the sun sank and the garden was full of people, he would sit with a candle in his shed, reading of the first love and the legend of apples and serpents. But the death of Christ on a tree he loved most. Trees made a fence around him, and he knew of the changing of the seasons by the hues on the bark and the rushing of sap through the covered roots. His world moved and changed as spring moved along the branches, changing their nakedness; his God grew up like a tree from the apple-shaped earth, giving bud to His children and letting His children be blown from their places by the breezes of winter; winter and death moved in one wind. He would sit in his shed and read of the crucifixion, looking over the jars on his window-shelf into the winter nights. He would think that love fails on such nights, and that many of its children are cut down.

  The child transfigured the blowsy lawns with his playing. The gardener called him by his mother’s name, and seated him on his knee, and talked to him of the wonders of Jerusalem and the birth in the manger.

  In the beginning was the village of Bethlehem, he whispered to the child before the bell rang for tea out of the growing darkness.

  Where is Bethlehem?

  Far away, said the gardener, in the East.

  To the east stood the Jarvis hills, hiding the sun, their trees drawing up the moon out of the grass.

  The child lay in bed. He watched the rocking horse and wished that it would grow wings so that he could mount it and ride into the Arabian sky; But the winds of Wales blew at the curtains, and crickets made a noise in the untidy plot under the window. His toys were dead. He started to cry and then stopped, knowing no reason for tears. The night was windy and cold, he was warm under the sheets; the night was as big as a hill, he was a boy in bed.

  Closing his eyes, he stared into a spinning cavern deeper than the darkness of the garden where the first tree on which the unreal birds had fastened stood alone and bright as fire. The tears ran back under his lids as he thought of the first tree that was planted so near him, like a friend in the garden. He crept out of bed and tiptoed to the door. The rocking horse bounded forward on its springs, startling the child into a noiseless scamper back to bed. The child looked at the horse and the horse was quiet; he tiptoed again along the carpet, and reached the door, and turned the knob around, and ran on to the landing. Feeling blindly in front of him, he made his way to the top of the stairs; he looked down the dark stairs into the hall, seeing a host of shadows curve in and out of the corners, hearing their sinuous voices, imagining the pits of their eyes and their lean arms. But they would be little and secret and bloodless, not cased in invisible armour but wound around with cloths as thin as a web; they would whisper as he walked, touch him on the shoulder, and say S in his ear. He went down the stairs; not a shadow moved in the hall, the corners were empty. He put out his hand and patted the darkness, thinking to feel some dry and velvet head creep under the fingers and edge, like a mist, into the nails. But there was nothing. He opened the front door, and the shadows swept into the garden.

  Once on the path, his fears left him. The moon had lain down on the unweeded beds, and her frosts were spread on the grass. At last he came to the illuminated tree at the long gravel end, older even than the marvel of light, with the woodlice asleep under the bark, with the boughs standing out from the body like the frozen arms of a woman. The child touched the tree; it bent as to his touch. He saw a star, brighter than any in the sky, burn steadily above the first birds’ tower, and shine on nowhere but on the leafless boughs and the trunk and the travelling roots.

  The child had not doubted the tree. He said his prayers to it, with knees bent on the blackened twigs the night wind fetched to the ground. Then, trembling with love and cold, he ran back over the lawns towards the house.

  There was an idiot to the east of the county who walked the land like a beggar. Now at a farmhouse and now at a widow’s cottage he begged for his bread. A parson gave him a suit, and it lopped round his hungry ribs and shoul
ders and waved in the wind as he shambled over the fields. But his eyes were so wide and his neck so clear of the country dirt that no one refused him what he asked. And asking for water, he was given milk.

  Where do you come from?

  From the east, he said.

  So they knew he was an idiot, and gave him a meal to clean the yards.

  As he bent with a rake over the dung and the trodden grain, he heard a voice rise in his heart. He put his hand into the cattle’s hay, caught a mouse, rubbed his hand over its muzzle, and let it go away.

  All day the thought of the tree was with the child; all night it stood up in his dreams as the star stood above its plot. One morning towards the middle of December, when the wind from the farthest hills was rushing around the house, and the snow of the dark hours had not dissolved from lawns and roofs, he ran to the gardener’s shed. The gardener was repairing a rake he had found broken. Without a word, the child sat on a seedbox at his feet, and watched him tie the teeth, and knew that the wire would not keep them together. He looked at the gardener’s boots, wet with snow, at the patched knees of his trousers, at the undone buttons of his coat, and the folds of his belly under the patched flannel shirt. He looked at his hands as they busied themselves over the golden knots of wire; they were hard, brown hands, with the stains of the soil under the broken nails and the stains of tobacco on the tips of the fingers. Now the lines of the gardener’s face were set in determination as time upon time he knotted the iron teeth only to feel them shake insecurely from the handle. The child was frightened of the strength and uncleanliness of the old man; but, looking at the long, thick beard, unstained and white as fleece, he soon became reassured. The beard was the beard of an apostle.

  I prayed to the tree, said the child.

  Always pray to a tree, said the gardener, thinking of Calvary and Eden.

  I pray to the tree every night.

  Pray to a tree.

  The wire slid over the teeth.

  I pray to that tree.

  The wire snapped.

  The child was pointing over the glasshouse flowers to the tree that, alone of all the trees in the garden, had no sign of snow.

  An elder, said the gardener, but the child stood up from his box and shouted so loud that the unmended rake fell with a clatter on the floor.

  The first tree. The first tree you told me of. In the beginning was the tree, you said. I heard you, the child shouted.

  The elder is as good as another, said the gardener, lowering his voice to humour the child.

  The first tree of all, said the child in a whisper.

  Reassured again by the gardener’s voice, he smiled through the window at the tree, and again the wire crept over the broken rake.

  God grows in strange trees, said the old man. His trees come to rest in strange places.

  As he unfolded the story of the twelve stages of the cross, the tree waved its boughs to the child. An apostle’s voice rose out of the tarred lungs.

  So they hoisted him up on a tree, and drove nails through his belly and his feet.

  There was the blood of the noon sun on the trunk of the elder, staining the bark.

  The idiot stood on the Jarvis hills, looking down into the immaculate valley from whose waters and grasses the mists of morning rose and were lost. He saw the dew dissolving, the cattle staring into the stream, and the dark clouds flying away at the rumour of the sun. The sun turned at the edges of the thin and watery sky like a sweet in a glass of water. He was hungry for light as the first and almost invisible rain fell on his lips; he plucked at the grass, and, tasting it, felt it lie green on his tongue. So there was light in his mouth, and light was a sound at his ears, and the whole dominion of light in the valley that had such a curious name. He had known of the Jarvis hills; their shapes rose over the slopes of the county to be seen for miles around, but no one had told him of the valley lying under the hills. Bethlehem, said the idiot to the valley, turning over the sounds of the word and giving it all the glory of the Welsh morning. He brothered the world around him, sipped at the air, as a child newly born sips and brothers the light. The life of the Jarvis valley, steaming up from the body of the grass and the trees and the long hand of the stream, lent him a new blood. Night had emptied the idiot’s veins, and dawn in the valley filled them again.

  Bethlehem, said the idiot to the valley.

  The gardener had no present to give the child, so he took out a key from his pocket and said, This is the key to the tower. On Christmas Eve I will unlock the door for you.

  Before it was dark, he and the child climbed the stairs to the tower, the key turned in the lock, and the door, like the lid of a secret box, opened and let them in. The room was empty. Where are the secrets? asked the child, staring up at the matted rafters and into the spiders’ corners and along the leaden panes of the window.

  It is enough that I have given you the key, said the gardener, who believed the key of the universe to be hidden in his pocket along with the feathers of birds and the seeds of flowers.

  The child began to cry because there were no secrets. Over and over again he explored the empty room, kicking up the dust to look for a colourless trap-door, tapping the unpanelled walls for the hollow voice of a room beyond the tower. He brushed the webs from the window, and looked out through the dust into the snowing Christmas Eve. A world of hills stretched far away into the measured sky, and the tops of the hills he had never seen climbed up to meet the falling flakes. Woods and rocks, wide seas of barren land, and a new tide of mountain sky sweeping through the black beeches, lay before him. To the east were the outlines of nameless hill creatures and a den of trees.

  Who are they? Who are they?

  They are the Jarvis hills, said the gardener, which have been from the beginning.

  He took the child by the hand and led him away from the window. The key turned in the lock.

  That night the child slept well; there was power in snow and darkness; there was unalterable music in the silence of the stars; there was a silence in the hurrying wind. And Bethlehem had been nearer than he expected.

  On Christmas morning the idiot walked into the garden. His hair was wet and his flaked and ragged shoes were thick with the dirt of the fields. Tired from the long journey from the Jarvis hills, and weak for the want of food, he sat down under the elder-tree where the gardener had rolled a log. Clasping his hands in front of him, he saw the desolation of the flower-beds and the weeds that grew in profusion on the edges of the paths. The tower stood up like a tree of stone and glass over the red eaves. He pulled his coat-collar round his neck as a fresh wind sprang up and struck the tree; he looked down at his hands and saw that they were praying. Then a fear of the garden came over him, the shrubs were his enemies, and the trees that made an avenue down to the gate lifted their arms in horror. The place was too high, peering down on to the tall hills; the place was too low, shivering up at the plumed shoulders of a new mountain. Here the wind was too wild, fuming about the silence, raising a Jewish voice out of the elder boughs; here the silence beat like a human heart. And as he sat under the cruel hills, he heard a voice that was in him cry out: Why did you bring me here?

  He could not tell why he had come; they had told him to come and had guided him, but he did not know who they were. The voice of a people rose out of the garden beds, and rain swooped down from heaven.

  Let me be, said the idiot, and made a little gesture against the sky. There is rain on my face, there is wind on my cheeks. He brothered the rain.

  So the child found him under the shelter of the tree, bearing the torture of the weather with a divine patience, letting his long hair blow where it would, with his mouth set in a sad smile.

  Who, was the stranger? He had fires in his eyes, the flesh of his neck under the gathered coat was bare. Yet he smiled as he sat in his rags under a tree on Christmas Day.

  Where do you come from? asked the child.

  From the east, answered the idiot.

  The gardener
had not lied, and the secret of the tower was true; this dark and shabby tree, that glistened only in the night, was the first tree of all.

  But he asked again:

  Where do you come from?

  From the Jarvis hills.

  Stand up against the tree.

  The idiot, still smiling, stood up with his back to the elder.

  Put out your arms like this.

  The idiot put out his arms.

  The child ran as fast as he could to the gardener’s shed, and, returning over the sodden lawns, saw that the idiot had not moved but stood, straight and smiling, with his back to the tree and his arms stretched out.

  Let me tie your hands.

  The idiot felt the wire that had not mended the rake close round his wrists. It cut into the flesh, and the blood from the cuts fell shining on to the tree.

  Brother, he said. He saw that the child held silver nails in the palm of his hand.

  My friend and collaborator PARKE GODWIN won the World Fantasy Award in 1982 for his brilliant ghost story “The Fire When It Comes” and has since garnered critical acclaim for his major novels of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere, Firelord and Beloved Exile. He has just completed the final volume of his Arthurian triptych, The Last Rainbow, a novel about St. Patrick. “Stroke of Mercy” is an unusual tale, unlike anything else Parke (and I suspect, anyone) has written. He describes it as a series of études. They are all in a minor key.

  Stroke of Mercy

  By Parke Godwin

  All Paris knows that Lord Berkeley is notoriously reckless of his life. Since he is also more skilled with a pistol than I, he will doubtless kill me at the appointed hour in defense of what he is pleased to call his honor. The more honor will redound to his name if his adversary is considered sane and not a visionary lunatic.

  With the heightened perception of madness, I appreciate the comedy of the situation. We are both from countries in which dueling is outlawed. Burr killed Hamilton two years ago on my native soil, but it cost him his political future. Berkeley’s England has frowned on dueling for a century. Paradoxically, it is here in Paris, the most civilized city in the world, that we come to this pass.