Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2

by Ray Bradbury

  ‘You did not,’ sulked Isabel.

  ‘Deliberate lies,’ Mr Howard tapped his cane in an impatient code. ‘Falsification of the highest caliber. Good God, Mr Arnold, Mr Bowers, there’ll be no more of this, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled the boys.

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they replied, again.

  Mr Howard swung off swiftly down the street. William Arnold waited until he was out of sight before he said, ‘I hope a bird drops something right smack on his nose—’

  ‘Come on, Clara, let’s play poison,’ said Isabel, hopefully.

  Clara pouted. ‘It’s been spoiled. I’m going home.’

  ‘I’m poisoned!’ cried Donald Bowers, falling to the earth and frothing merrily. ‘Look, I’m poisoned! Gahhh!’

  ‘Oh,’ cried Clara, angrily, and ran away.

  Saturday morning Mr Howard glanced out his front window and swore when he saw Isabel Skelton making chalk marks on his sidewalk and then hopping about, making a monotonous sing-song with her voice.

  ‘Stop that!’

  Rushing out, he almost flung her to the pavement in his emotion. He grabbed her and shook her violently and let her go and stood over her and the chalk marks.

  ‘I was only playing hopscotch,’ she sobbed, hands over her eyes.

  ‘I don’t care, you can’t play it here,’ he declared. Bending, he erased the chalk marks with his handkerchief, muttering. ‘Young witch. Pentagrams. Rhymes and incantations, and all looking perfectly innocent, God, how innocent. You little fiend!’ He made as if to strike her, but stopped. Isabel ran off, wailing. ‘Go ahead, you little fool!’ he screamed furiously. ‘Run off and tell your little cohorts that you’ve failed. They’ll have to try some other way! They won’t get around me, they won’t, oh, no!’

  He stalked back into his house and poured himself a stiff drink of brandy and drank it down. The rest of the day he heard the children playing kick-the-can, hide-and-seek, Over-Annie-Over, jacks, tops, mibs, and the sound of the little monsters in every shrub and shadow would not let him rest. ‘Another week of this,’ he thought, ‘and I’ll be stark staring.’ He flung his hand to his aching head. ‘God in heaven, why weren’t we all born adults?’

  Another week, then. And the hatred growing between him and the children. The hate and the fear growing apace. The nervousness, the sudden tantrums over nothing, and then – the silent waiting, the way the children climbed the trees and looked at him as they swiped late apples, the melancholy smell of autumn settling in around the town, the days growing short, the night coming too soon.

  ‘But they won’t touch me, they won’t dare touch me,’ thought Mr Howard sucking down one glass of brandy after another. ‘It’s all very silly anyhow, and there’s nothing to it. I’ll soon be away from here, and – them. I’ll soon—’

  There was a white skull at the window.

  It was eight o’clock of a Thursday evening. It had been a long week, with the angry flares and the accusations. He had had to continually chase the children away from the water-main excavation in front of his house. Children loved excavations, hiding places, pipes and conduits and trenches, and they were ever ascramble over and on and down in and up out of the holes where the new pipes were being laid. It was all finished, thank the Lord, and tomorrow the workmen would shovel in the earth and tamp it down and put in a new cement sidewalk, and that would eliminate the children. But, right now—

  There was a white skull at the window!

  There could be no doubt that a boy’s hand held the skull against the glass, tapping and moving it. There was a childish tittering from outside.

  Mr Howard burst from the house. ‘Hey, you!’ He exploded into the midst of the three running boys. He leaped after them, shouting and yelling. The street was dark, but he saw the figures dart beyond and below him. He saw them sort of bound and could not remember the reason for this, until too late.

  The earth opened under him. He fell and lay in a pit, his head taking a terrific blow from a laid water-pipe, and as he lost consciousness he had an impression as of an avalanche, set off by his fall, cascading down cool moist pellets of dirt upon his pants, his shoes, upon his coat, upon his spine, upon the back of his neck, his head, filling his mouth, his ears, his eyes, his nostrils …

  The neighbor lady with the eggs wrapped in a napkin, knocked on Mr Howard’s door the next day for five minutes. When she opened the door, finally, and walked in, she found nothing but spicules of rugdust floating in the sunny air, the big halls were empty, the cellar smelled of coal and clinkers, and the attic had nothing in it but a rat, a spider, and a faded letter. ‘Funniest thing,’ she said many times in the following years, ‘what ever happened to Mr Howard.’

  And adults, being what they are, never observant, paid no attention to the children playing ‘Poison’ on Oak Bay Street, in all the following autumns. Even when the children leaped over one particular square of cement, twisted about and glanced at the marks on it which read:

  ‘M. HOWARD – R.I.P.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Howard, Billy?’

  ‘Aw, I guess he’s the guy who laid the cement.’

  ‘What does R.I.P. mean?’

  ‘Aw, who knows? You’re poison! You stepped on it!’

  ‘Get along, get along, children; don’t stand on Mother’s path! Get along now!’

  The Cold Wind and the Warm

  ‘Good God in heaven, what’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘Are you blind, man, look!’

  And Garrity, elevator operator, looked out to see what the hall porter was staring at.

  And in out of the Dublin morn, sweeping through the front doors of the Royal Hibernian Hotel, along the entryway and to the registry was a tall willowy man of some forty years followed by five short willowy youths of some twenty years, a burst of bird song, their hands flapping all about on the air as they passed, their eyes squinching, batting, and flickering, their mouths pursed, their brows enlightened and then dark, their color flushed and then pale, or was it both?, their voices now flawless piccolo, now flute, now melodious oboe but always tuneful. Carrying six monologues, all sprayed forth upon each other at once, in a veritable cloud of self-commiseration, peeping and twitting the discouragements of travel and the ardors of weather, the corps de ballet as it were flew, cascaded, flowed eloquently in a greater bloom of cologne by astonished hall porter and transfixed elevator man. They collided deliciously to a halt at the desk where the manager glanced up to be swarmed over by their music. His eyes made nice round o’s with no centers in them.

  ‘What,’ whispered Garrity, ‘was that?’

  ‘You may well ask,’ said the porter.

  At which point the elevator lights flashed and the buzzer buzzed. Garrity had to tear his eyes off the summery crowd and heft himself skyward.

  ‘We,’ said the tall slender man with a touch of gray at the temples, ‘should like a room, please.’

  The manager remembered where he was and heard himself say, ‘Do you have reservations, sir?’

  ‘Dear me, no,’ said the older man as the others giggled. ‘We flew in unexpectedly from Taormina,’ the tall man with the chiseled features and the moist flower mouth continued. ‘We were getting so awfully bored, after a long summer, and someone said, Let’s have a complete change, let’s do something wild. What? I said. Well, where’s the most improbable place in the world? Let’s name it and go there. Somebody said the North Pole, but that was silly. Then I cried, Ireland! Everyone fell down. When the pandemonium ceased we just scrambled for the airport. Now sunshine and Sicilian shorelines are like yesterday’s lime sherbet to us, all melted to nothing. And here we are to do … something mysterious!’

  ‘Mysterious?’ asked the manager.

  ‘We don’t know what it is,’ said the tall man. ‘But we shall know it when we see it, or it happens, or perhaps we shall have to make it happen, right, cohorts?’

  The cohorts responded wi
th something vaguely like tee-hee.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the manager, with good grace, ‘if you gave me some idea what you’re looking for in Ireland, I could point out—’

  ‘Goodness, no,’ said the tall man. ‘We shall just plummet forth with our intuitions scarved about our necks, taking the wind as ’twere and see what we shall tune in on. When we solve the mystery and find what we came to find, you will know of our discovery by the ululations and cries of awe and wonder emanating from our small tourist group.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the hall porter, under his breath.

  ‘Well, comrades, let us sign in.’

  The leader of the encampment reached for a scratchy hotel pen, found it filthy, and flourished forth his own absolutely pure 14-carat solid gold pen with which in an obscure but rather pretty cerise calligraphy he inscribed the name DAVID followed by SNELL followed by dash and ending with ORKNEY. Beneath, he added ‘and friends.’

  The manager watched the pen, fascinated, and once more recalled his position in all this. ‘But, sir, I haven’t said if we have space—’

  ‘Oh, surely you must, for six miserable wanderers in sore need of respite from overfriendly airline stewardesses – one room would do it!’

  ‘One?’ said the manager, aghast.

  ‘We wouldn’t mind the crowd, would we, chums?’ asked the older man, not looking at his friends.

  No, they wouldn’t mind.

  ‘Well,’ said the manager, uneasily fumbling at the registry. ‘We just happen to have two adjoining—’

  ‘Perfecto!’ cried David Snell-Orkney.

  And the registration finished, the manager behind the desk and the visitors from a far place stood regarding each other in a prolonged silence. At last the manager blurted, ‘Porter! Front! Take these gentlemen’s luggage—’

  But just then the hall porter ran over to look at the floor.

  Where there was no luggage.

  ‘No, no, none.’ David Snell-Orkney airily waved his hand. ‘We travel light. We’re here only for twenty-four hours, or perhaps only twelve, with a change of underwear stuffed in our overcoats. Then back to Sicily and warm twilights. If you want me to pay in advance—’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said the manager, handing the keys to the hall porter. ‘Forty-six and forty-seven, please.’

  ‘It’s done,’ said the porter.

  And like a collie dog silently nipping the hooves of some woolly long-haired, bleating, dumbly smiling sheep, he herded the lovely bunch toward the elevator which wafted down just at that precise moment.

  At the desk, the manager’s wife came up, steel-eyed behind him. ‘Are you mad?’ she whispered, wildly. ‘Why? Why?’

  ‘All my life,’ said the manager, half to himself, ‘I have wished to see not one Communist but ten close by, not two Nigerians but twenty in their skins, not three cowboy Americans but a gross fresh from the saddle. So when six hothouse roses come in a bouquet, I could not resist potting them. The Dublin winter is long, Meg; this may be the only lit fuse in the whole year. Stand by for the lovely concussion.’

  ‘Fool,’ she said.

  As they watched, the elevator, freighted with hardly more than the fluff from a blown dandelion, whisked up the shaft, away.

  It was exactly at high noon that a series of coincidences occurred that tottered and swerved toward the miraculous.

  Now the Royal Hibernian Hotel lies half between Trinity College, if you’ll excuse the mention, and St. Stephen’s Green, which is more like it, and around behind is Grafton Street, where you can buy silver, glass, and linen, or pink hacking coats, boots, and caps to ride off to the goddamned hounds, or better still duck in to Heeber Finn’s pub for a proper proportion of drink and talk – an hour of drink to two hours of talk is about the best prescription.

  Now the boys most often seen in Finn’s are these: Nolan, you know Nolan; Timulty, who could forget Timulty; Mike MaGuire, surely everyone’s friend; then there’s Hannahan, Flaherty, Kilpatrick, and, on occasion, when God seems a bit untidy and Job comes to mind, Father Liam Leary himself, who strides in like Justice and glides forth like Mercy.

  Well, that’s the lot, and it’s high noon, and out of the Hibernian Hotel front who should come now but Snell-Orkney and his canary five.

  Which resulted in the first of a dumbfounding series of confrontations.

  For passing below, sore torn between the sweet shops and Heeber Finn’s, was Timulty himself.

  Timulty, as you recall, when Blight, Famine, Starvation, and other mean Horsemen drive him, works a day here or there at the post office. Now, idling along between dread employments, he smelled a smell as if the gates of Eden had swung wide again and him invited back in after a hundred million years. So Timulty looked up to see what made the wind blow out of the Garden.

  And the wind, of course, was in tumult about Snell-Orkney and his uncaged pets.

  ‘I tell you,’ said Timulty, years later, ‘I felt my eyes start as if I’d been given a good bash on the skull. A new part ran down the center of my hair.’

  Timulty, frozen to the spot, watched the Snell-Orkney delegation flow down the steps and around the corner. At which point he decided on sweeter things than candy and rushed the long way to Finn’s.

  At that instant, rounding the corner, Mr David Snell-Orkney-plus-five passed a beggar-lady playing a harp in the street. And there, with nothing else to do but dance the time away, was Mike MaGuire himself, flinging his feet about in a self-involved rigadoon to ‘Lightly o’er the Lea.’ Dancing, Mike MaGuire heard a sound that was like the passing by of warm weather from the Hebrides. It was not quite a twittering nor a whirr, and it was not unlike a pet shop when the bell tinkles as you step in and a chorus of parakeets and doves start up in coos and light shrieks. But hear he did, above the sound of his own shoes and the pringle of harp. He froze in mid-jig.

  As David Snell-Orkney-plus-five swept by all tropic smiled and gave him a wave.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Mike waved back, then stopped and seized his wounded hand to his breast. ‘What the hell am I waving for?’ he cried to no one. ‘I don’t know them, do I?’

  ‘Ask God for strength!’ said the harpist to her harp and flung her fingers down the strings.

  Drawn as by some strange new vacuum cleaner that swept all before it, Mike followed the Team down the street.

  Which takes care of two senses now, the sense of smell and the use of the ears.

  It was at the next corner that Nolan, leaving Finn’s pub because of an argument with Finn himself, came around the bend fast and ran bang into David Snell-Orkney. Both swayed and grabbed each other for support.

  ‘Top of the afternoon!’ said David Snell-Orkney.

  ‘The Back Side of Something!’ replied Nolan, and fell away, gaping to let the circus by. He had a terrible urge to rush back to Finn’s. His fight with the owner of the pub was obliterated. He wished now to report upon this fell encounter with a feather duster, a Siamese cat, a spoiled Pekingese, and three others gone ghastly frail from undereating and over-washing.

  The six stopped outside the pub looking up at the sign.

  Ah, God, thought Nolan. They’re going in. What will come of it? Who do I warn first? Them? Or Finn?

  Then, the door opened. Finn himself looked out. Damn, thought Nolan, that spoils it! Now we won’t be allowed to describe this adventure. It will be Finn this, Finn that, and shut up to us all! There was a long moment when Snell-Orkney and his cohorts looked at Finn. Finn’s eyes did not fasten on them. He looked above. He looked over. He looked beyond.

  But he had seen them, this Nolan knew. For now a lovely thing happened.

  All the color went out of Finn’s face.

  Then an even lovelier thing happened.

  All the color rushed back into Finn’s face.

  Why, cried Nolan to himself, he’s … blushing!

  But still Finn refused to look anywhere save the sky, the lamps, the street, until Snell-Orkney
trilled, ‘Sir, which way to St. Stephen’s Green?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Finn and turned away. ‘Who knows where they put it, this week!’ and slammed the door.

  The six went on up the street, all smiles and delight, and Nolan was all for heaving himself through the door when a worse thing happened.

  Garrity, the elevator operator from the Royal Hibernian Hotel, whipped across the sidewalk from nowhere. His face ablaze with excitement, he ran first into Finn’s to spread the word.

  By the time Nolan was inside, and Timulty rushing in next, Garrity was all up and down the length of the bar while Finn stood behind it suffering concussions from which he had not as yet recovered.

  ‘It’s a shame you missed it!’ cried Garrity to all. ‘I mean it was the next thing to one of them fiction-and-science fillums they show at the Gayety Cinema!’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Finn, shaken out of his trance.

  ‘Nothing they weigh!’ Garrity told them. ‘Lifting them in the elevator was throwing a handful of chaff up a chimney! And you should have heard. They’re here in Ireland for …’ He lowered his voice and squinched his eyes. ‘… for mysterious reasons!’

  ‘Mysterious!’ Everyone leaned in at him.

  ‘They’ll put no name to it, but, mark my declaration, they’re up to no good! Have you ever seen the like?’

  ‘Not since the great fire at the convent,’ said Finn. ‘I—’

  But the word ‘convent’ seemed one more magic touch. The doors sprang wide at this. Father Leary entered in reverse. That is to say he backed into the pub one hand to his cheek as if the Fates had dealt him a proper blow unbewares.

  Reading the look of his spine, the men shoved their noses in their drinks until such time as the father had put a bit of the brew into himself, still staring as if the door were the gates of Hell ajar.

  ‘Beyond,’ said the father, at last, ‘not two minutes gone, I saw a sight as would be hard to credit. In all the days of her collecting up the grievances of the world, has Ireland indeed gone mad?’

  Finn refilled the priest’s glass. ‘Was you standing in the blast of The Invaders from the Planet Venus, Father?’