by Cave, Hugh
"I'm comin' to the gennleman heuh. Whilst I been talkin' to the lady up front, I felt a chokin' condition come inter my throat an' a achin' go acrost my eyes. I would like to ask the gennleman does he smoke much an' does he read a whole lot? Yes, the gennleman righ heuh; you I'm talkin' to."
"Why—yes," Peter says.
"You does. I knows it because I'm feelin' all de time like I wan' fer a breat' er fresh air. An' I wan' ter say, 'Don' do it! Don' smoke all de time. Git out in de air an' move aroun' more'n you is doin'!' Because I'm feelin' dat sickness is certain gwine git hold er me bufore long, less'n I git some breat'. Does you unnerstan' what I'm tryin' ter bring ter you?"
"Yes," Peter says.
"Does you think much, especially at night?"
Peter does not answer. He knows that he does think at night, because he writes his stories at night, when his apartment is quiet. But he cannot comprehend what the big man is thinking. He cannot understand . . . "Trouble—and worse. . ." Godfrey Langdon's menacing prophecy crowds his ears. ". . . something terrible. .
One of the two white women says, in a shrill piercing voice: "Don't hold him! Speak up! If you doesn't understand, say so!"
Peter says quickly: "Yes, I guess I do."
"Because I'm feelin' dat I needs mo' sleep. I'm gettin' tire' out all de time, an' when I does go ter bed I'm thinkin' an' thinkin' an' thinkin' an' it seems like I just cain't make dem thoughts go 'way an' leave me be. Would you unnerstan' dat feelin'?"
"Yes."
"Does you worry 'bout gittin' money?"
"Yes."
"Gits it t'rough letters what comes ter you, an' dere ain't no letters come fer a long time. Is dat right?"
"Yes."
"Den I says ter you, don' worry no mo'. I feels mysel' usin' my fingers an' thinkin' an' usin' my fingers an' thinkin' all de time. Does you inven' things er does you write lots of letters er what?"
"I—write stories," Peter says.
"Yus. I can feel mysel' doin' it an' thinkin' about it so it near makes me crazy from thinkin'. I says ter you, don' think so much an' don't worry. Dere's letters a-comin' with money in 'em. Lots 'n lots er money; more'n you ever think fer. Would you unnerstan' dat, what I'm sayin' ter you?"
"Yes. I—I think so."
"Den I'm leavin' you in de hands er de divine spirit, an' I'm hopin' when his heuh money comes ter you, you won' forgit dis little church which is needin' money so bad. I'm comin' now to der—"
The big man closes his eyes and shakes his head from side to side. He stands very still over the table, reading the large print of the Bible desperately, as if the words there would have the power to drive away what was pursuing him. Suddenly he raises his head and sings and after the first few words the others join him.
"Gwine lay down my sword an' shield down by de ribberside, down by de ribberside, down by de ribberside. Gwine lay down my sword an' shield down by de ribberside I am' gwine study war no mo'. I am' gwine study war no mo', I am' gwine study war—no—mo'. Gwine lay down my sword an' shield down by de ribberside, I am' gwine study war no mo’
The words come one after the other so swiftly that Swede cannot learn them. He makes no attempt to join in the singing, although the big man is standing rigid and staring straight at him. Emma sings feebly; she is afraid that the emotions of these people will become uncontrollable.
The song continues through verse after verse. Remembering what Peter said, Swede glances quickly at his watch. It is a quarter after twelve o'clock. The people in the benches are standing up now, one after another; they hold no song books; their arms are swaying and their bodies are swaying and their voices are not in harmony. One woman is singing in a monotone in a high, screaming voice that makes Swede's ears throb. She seems never to breathe, this woman, but carries her single note over every pause without faltering. It is a weird, uncanny note that fills the entire room.
The song continues. At the termination of each verse some single voice begins another, and all voices carry along. These people love to sing, Swede decides. They sing passionately, to hurl out their feelings. They sing for glory. Peter is singing with them, as loud as the rest. He, too, loves to sing!
It goes on without end. There will never be an end to it, Swede thinks. It will persist forever, until these folks are drunk with the madness of it. They are drunk now. Many of them are swinging their bodies with the music. They are in the aisle, pushing and straining against one another. One man is kneeling; another is standing at the rear wall, hammering the rhythm with his clenched fists, another is crawling on the floor up the aisle and being trodden on. Swede and Emma are the only ones not standing. At the rear, Meg is cringing against Peter and holding his arm fearfully, and Peter is not noticing her.
On the platform, the big man is trembling violently, spinning like a top, spitting and hissing through his lips. He falls suddenly and lies very still; and the two white women run to him and raise him up. They assist him to one of the chairs. One of them gets water from the rusty iron sink in the back of the room. The singing has ended abruptly, as if a phonograph reproducer had been lifted all at once from the groove of a record.
Swede stands up and grabs at Emma's hand.
"Come on, let's get out of here," he says curtly. "I've had enough of this stuff."
She pulls him down again, whispering: "We can't go now, Swede! They might kill us! Oh, do be quiet!"
Swede sits tense. In the chair on the platform, the big negro is stirring pitifully. His features are obliterated with sweat; his clothing is drenched with it; his eyes are blood-shot and dilated horribly. He pushes the two white women away from him and stumbles up to his feet, where he takes hold of the table and sways drunkenly. His gaze is once again fastened, tentacle-like, upon Swede.
"It's him!" he screams. "It's him I'm feelin'! I'm chokin' an' stranglin' with him. The spirits come ter me an' took hold er me, an' he brung 'em heuh! He am' sayin' nuttin'—he am' singin' ter drive the spirits out'n us—he jus' grinnin' an' laughin' an' makin' mock er us. Lissen ter me, I'm tellin' yer! He done brung de debble heuh tonight ter kill all'n us daid! He done brung—"
The big man is pointing, pointing, pointing. Swede stands up and makes for the aisle, dragging Emma with him. The big man's face is livid with anger; he screams with an intensity that smothers every other sound in the room. And the aisle is blocked with surging men and women, muttering and yelling and hissing in answer.
"Something terrible . . . will happen!" Godfrey Langdon's words now din in Swede's head.
They close about Swede, allowing Emma to stumble and lurch toward the door at the rear. They claw and clutch and fling themselves upon Swede's big bulk as he stands alone. The aisle to the door is filled and choked with them, and they are like demons in their emotional rage.
Swede strikes out with his fists. He tears himself loose and lays about him. One old woman he hurts badly; he knows it because after he hurls her into the benches she rolls upon the floor and stares up at him, and her face is shapeless. Swede is growling now. He wants to fight. Ever since he came he has wanted to fight, to hammer his fists into these rotten faces. He batters his way through.
Emma is clear of clawing hands and Peter is coming to Swede's assistance, leaving Meg and Emma near the door. Peter reaches Swede's side and mutters words of advice; then Swede sets himself and plunges. He crushes these clawing screaming hissing shapes aside and Peter comes after him. They reach the door.
The door is closed. Meg is lying on the floor in front of it, with her face to the ceiling. Her clothes are torn and her eyes are horribly wide open. The diseased white boy is standing above her with a knife in his hand. Emma is standing flat against the door, screaming.
Emma's lavender dress is slashed and bloody. It is obvious that the diseased white boy attacked her first in his frenzy to destroy an unbeliever. It is obvious that Meg went to Emma's assistance, and that the white boy, in terrible rage at being interfered with, turned his attack upon Meg.
Meg is dead. Th
e diseased white boy has dragged her down and killed her in his madness. Now he is again trying to reach Emma with the bloody knife that is clutched in his fist.
But he is weak. Swede twists the knife away from him at the first thrust and throws him across the room. Swede flings the door open and pushes Emma across the threshold; then he turns and seizes Peter's shoulder. Peter is on his knees sobbing, shaking Meg to bring her back to life, but she is dead. She has been stabbed many times.
"Oh, God," Peter moans. "Oh God, oh God."
Swede looks and sees that Meg cannot hear him. He says curtly: "Get up! You can't do anything for her! Get up. She's beyond help. We better get out while we can."
But Peter will not get up. His soul is in Meg's body. He cannot leave her here, with these people. He cannot think of anything except that she is dead.
Swede picks him up bodily and carries him. Emma is already descending the outer stairs to the Omega Lunch, and Swede tumbles down after her. Men in the lunch room are standing up and staring, but they do not interfere as Swede carries Peter out to the sidewalk.
Swede's battered sedan is standing at the curb, straight ahead, and Peter's car is a little lower down, near the corner. Between them now stands a third car, and beside the third car Godfrey Langdon, Meg's brother, is waiting. He rushes forward as Swede emerges from the doorway. He ignores Emma; he ignores Swede. He takes hold of Peter's arm frantically as Swede allows Peter to stand.
"Where's Meg?" he says hoarsely. "Where is she!"
Peter says nothing. He cannot look into the boy's face, and so he stares at the sidewalk. He still cannot think of anything except that Meg is dead. Godfrey goes to Swede and to Emma and repeats his demand, becoming hysterical. He gets no reply from any of them.
He seizes Peter again and shakes him.
"Where is she?" he pleads. He is crying.
"They—they killed her," Peter says heavily.
Godfrey cannot believe it. He has never faced death. He can think only of Meg sprawled in the chair at Peter's apartment where there is no suggestion of death or anything related to death. He stands foolishly on the sidewalk, staring into Swede's face and then into Peter's face. His own face is limp and empty.
"Is it true?" he cries suddenly. "Is it true what you're saying?"
"She's dead," Swede says. "We—we couldn't help it. We didn't know." Godfrey does not move. His feet are paralyzed on the pavement. He stares long and intently at Peter, and then he cries out wildly:
"It's your fault! You brought her here! I'll kill you for it!"
He rushes at Peter. Peter stiffens and reaches out to hold him away. Godfrey claws at him the way the others clawed, up there in the room above the Omega Lunch.
"Get hold of him, Swede," Peter mutters. "He'll make himself sick."
But Swede cannot drag him away. He will not be dragged away. He forces Peter against the wall of the building, and his fingers scratch at Peter's neck.
Peter is afraid. He tries again to push Godfrey away from him, but he is not powerful enough. Godfrey's fingers are already locked in his neck and hurting him, and the boy's breath is coming in animal-like grunts of fury. The religious boy means to kill.
Peter brings up his fist and drives it home. There is no defense against it and the blow is a hard one. Godfrey releases his hold and staggers back across the sidewalk. He crashes headlong into the fender of Swede's car, and drops to the gutter and lies very still.
Swede picks him up and says quickly, as Peter comes forward:
"You've hurt him, Peter. Look."
Peter looks and says, "Oh God." The fender of the car had slashed Godfrey's head and blood is spurting.
"Look here," Peter says fearfully. "Take him home, will you? I—I've got to think."
"You're going back up there to get Meg?"
"I don't know! I don't know what to do!"
"You'll get into trouble."
"All right, all right. But get him home. Go on! Don't stand there like a—"
"He's not hurt much," Swede says vaguely, as if the words do not mean anything to him. "I'll take him home if you say so, but he's not hurt much. You drive the car, Em, and I'll hold him so he won't get everything all bloody."
They get into the car and Peter watches it jerk away from the curb. He stands there after it had gone. The number on the rear plate is 1313. Peter does not know what to do. He wants to go up and take Meg out and carry her home, but he is afraid. He tries to tell himself that she is not dead—that she is only unconscious. But he is afraid to look at her again and learn the truth.
He sees two policemen pacing toward him under a street lamp a block distant. It frightens him. He turns and runs wildly. He runs on and on down Raymond Street. He leaves his car standing at the curb.
He wants to get out of here and go into the city proper, where there are bright lights and people talking; but he is afraid people will talk to him and ask questions. He is afraid he will meet more policemen, and they will stare at him. He finds refuge in a doorway far down Raymond Street from the Omega Lunch, and he waits there for an hour. A woman stops and asks him for money. He shakes his head and tells her he has none; and she sneers at him. The door behind him opens and a middle-aged man slouches out. He glances at Peter curiously, but says nothing. Peter presses his hands to his face and says over and over, "Oh God, oh God, oh God!" Then he steps out of the doorway and walks back toward the Omega Lunch.
The street is deserted now. In front of the Omega Lunch Peter's car is still standing. Obviously the police have not yet learned what happened. Peter approaches the car timidly. He sees that there is no longer a light in the lunchroom. Furtively he tries the door, and finds it locked. He tells himself that the room above is empty and the people have fled. Perhaps they have taken Meg with them; perhaps they have left her lying there, alone in the darkness.
Peter is horribly afraid. The thought of her lying in darkness drives all resolution from him, and he turns, trembling. Quickly he jerks open the door of his car and slides into the seat. He starts the motor. The machine lurches away from the curb. The Omega Lunch is gulped in gloom behind.
Peter drives desperately. He drives down Raymond Street and into the city. Mechanically he guides the car through a maze of other cars, in and out of streets and past signal lights, and out onto the State road. Here occasional cars pass him, droning toward him with glaring, accusing lights and falling away behind him with roaring whines. He drives faster. He wants to go very fast, to make him forget.
He sees something, now, and stiffens at the wheel. Fright numbs his senses. Then a fever as of delirium burns him. Directly in front of him outside the windshield floats a white, indistinct form. It hovers over the cowl, seeming to glide along with effortless ease. It is a woman in white, with arms outstretched gently.
"Meg—" Peter whispers. Then he shrieks aloud, "Meg!"
The woman's face is very close, looking in at him. All else is darkness, blurring past as the car speeds onward. The face is Meg's face, smiling. Peter can see the lips move. Subconsciously he realizes what they are saying to him.
"Poor boy. Poor Peter."
"Meg . . . Meg . . ."
"Poor, poor Peter. You are so sad, so lonely. You should be happy now."
"Oh, God, come back to me!" Peter pleads. "Come back to me, Meg! I'm so afraid!"
"Do you love me, Peter?"
"Love you—oh, God, I do!" More now than ever in life, he knows, for there is now the guilt on his soul for bringing death on her.
"Then come to me, Peter. Come to me now. The others, they can never come; they do not believe. But you, Peter—you have always believed, in your heart. You taught me to believe, Peter. Come to me."
Peter stares mutely, pitifully. He does not understand. It is very strange. He, who believed, had known nothing of the mad things that would happen tonight. Known nothing, nothing at all. Godfrey Langdon had said: "There will be death there will be trouble . . ." And yet Godfrey Langdon was an unbeliever. Godfrey, incubated i
n religion that shouted Peter's beliefs in evil omens sinful, had warned of the evil whose signs he denied!
Strange. . . so strange . . . that an unbeliever should be the one to whom the whisperers in the dark beyond had sent their message. The unbeliever, the scoffer, had heard and delivered their whisperings . . . and the believer had scoffed.
Peter stares, and there is no floating shape beyond the windshield now. It has come closer and closer with a silent, gliding movement, and it is inside the car with him. The woman in white is close to him, very close, with her hand resting gently on his arm.
"Will you come, Peter?" she whispers, and her voice is silvery soft with pure love for him.
"Yes!" he cries. "Yes!"
"Drive fast, Peter."
Peter's foot presses to the floor. The road is straight as an endless tube, terminating far away in darkness. The car leaps along it like an unleashed hound. Peter drives with one hand and puts his arm gently about the woman beside him. She is warm and soft; she drops her head to his shoulder and smiles up at him. She is lovelier than ever before. She is lovelier than any woman he has ever seen before.
"Faster, Peter."
Peter forces the accelerator to its limit. He does not care now what happens to him. He sees a huge truck ahead, creeping toward him with red and green lights on its side, and a single baleful yellow eye of headlight. But he does not care.
The truck's light sweeps onward, glowing in the dark. Peter's right hand clutches the wheel. He does not lift his foot from the floor. There is no need to slow, because the road is straight and wide and otherwise deserted. Peter draws the white lady very close to him and is strangely happy.
He does not care when the white lady reaches over and grips the wheel in her slender fingers. Nothing matters any more, except that he is happy. The wheel turns sharply as the woman in white guides it.
The car swerves frantically to the left, into the path of the oncoming headlight. Peter screams. He cannot lift his foot from the accelerator because it is glued there by physical terror.
