19 Tales of Terror

by Whit Burnett

  Jove you so much," he said, and then paused. "But I'm afraid of

  you, too."

  She smiled quietly. "You? Mraid of me? What's there about

  me you can be afraid of?''

  "Well, you're kind of u ntouchabfe. There's an inscrutability

  about you. Probably you don't even know it yourself. You're

  kind of like your own garden-fixed, and just so. I'm afraid to

  move around. I might disturb some of your plants."

  Mary was pleased. "Dear," she said. "You let me do it. You

  made it my garden. Yes; you are dear." And she let him kiss

  her.

  III

  He was proud of her when people came in to dinner. She was

  so pretty, so cool and perfect. Her bowls of flowers were exquisite, and she talked about the garden modestly, hesitantly, almost as though she were talking about herself. Sometimes

  she took her guests into the garden. She pointed to a fuchsia

  tree. "I didn't know whether he would succeed," she said, just

  as though the plant were a person. "He ate a lot of plant food

  before he decided to come around." She smiled quietly to

  herself. ·

  She was delightful when she worked in the garden. She wore

  a bright print dress, quite long in the skirt, and sleeveless. Som�

  where she had found an old-fashioned sunbonnet. She wore

  18 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  good sturdy gloves to protect her hands. Harry liked to watch

  her going about with a bag and a big spoon, putting plant food

  about the roots of her flowers. He liked it, too, when they went

  out at night to kill slugs and snails. Mary held the flashlight

  while Harry did the actual killing, crushing the slugs and snails

  into oozy, bubbling masses. He knew it must be a disgusting

  business to her, but the light never wavered. "Brave girl," he

  thought. "She has a sturdiness in back of that fragile beauty."

  She made the hunts exciting too. ''There's a big one, creeping

  and creeping," she would say. "He's after that big bloom. Kill

  him! Kill him quickly!" They came into the house after the

  hunts laughing happily.

  Mary was worried about the birds. ''They don't come down

  to drink," she complained. "Not many of them. I wonder what's

  keeping them away."

  "Maybe they aren't used to it yet. They'll come later. Maybe

  there's a cat around."

  Her face flushed and she breathed deeply. Her pretty lips

  tightened away from her teeth. "If there's a cat, I'll put out

  poisoned fish," she cried. "I won't have a cat after my birds!"

  Harry had to soothe her. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll buy an

  air gun. Then if a cat comes, we can shoot it, and it won't kill

  the cat, but it'll hurt, and the cat won't come back."

  "Yes," she said more calmly. ''That might be better!'

  'fhe living-room was very pleasant at night. The fire burned

  up in a sheet of flame. If there was a moon, Mary turned off

  the lights and then they sat looking through the window at the

  cool blue garden and the dark oak trees.

  It was utterly calm and eternal out there. And then the

  garden ended and the dark thickets of the hill began.

  "That's the enemy," Mary said one time. ''That's the world

  that wants to get in, all rough and tangled and unkempt. But it

  can't get in because the fuchsias won't let it. That's what the

  fuchsias are there for, and they know it. The birds can get in.

  They live out in the wild, but they come to my garden for peace

  and for water." She laughed softly. "There's something profound in all that, Harry. I don't know quite what it is. The quail are beginning to come down now. At least a dozen were

  at the pool this evening."

  He said, "I wish I could see the inside of your mind. It seems

  to flutter around, but it's a cool, collected mind. It's s�sure

  of itself."

  Mary went to sit on his lap for a moment. "Not so awfully

  sure. You don't know, and I'm glad you don't."

  The White Quail • 19

  IV

  One night when Harry was reading his paper under the lamp,

  Mary jumped up. "I left my garden scissors outside," she said.

  "The dew will rust them."

  Harry looked over his paper. "Can't I get them for you?"

  "No, I'll go. You couldn't find them." She went out into the

  garden and found the shears, and then she looked in the window, into the living room. Harry was still reading his paper.

  The room was clear, like a picture, like the set of a play that

  was about to start. A curtain of fire waved up in the fireplace.

  Mary stood still and looked. There was the big, deep chair she

  had been sitting in a minute ago. What would she be doing if

  she hadn't come outside? Suppose. only essence, only mind and

  sight had come, leaving Mary in the chair? She could almost see

  herself sitting there. Her round arms and long fingers were resting on the chair. Her delicate, sensitive face was in profile, looking reflectively into the firelight. "What is she thinking about?"

  Mary whispered. "I wonder what's going on in her mind. Will

  she get up? No, she's just sitting there. The neck of that dresss is

  too wide, see how it slips sideways over the shoulder. But that's

  rather pretty. It looks careless, but neat and pretty. Now-she's

  smiling. She must be thinking something nice."

  Sudenly Mary came to herself and realized what she had

  been doing. She was delighted. "There were two me's," she

  thought. "It was like having two lives, being able to see myself.

  That's wonderful. I wonder whether I can see it whenever I

  want to. I saw just what other people see when they look at me.

  I must tell Harry about that." But then a new picture formed;

  she saw herself explaining, trying to describe what had happened. She saw him looking over his paper with an intent, puzzled, almost pained look in his eyes. He tried so hard to understand when she told him things. He wanted to understand, and he never quite succeeded. If she told him about this vision

  tonight, he would ask questions. He would turn the thing over

  and over, trying to understand it, until finally he ruined it. He

  didn't want to spoil the things she told him, but he just couldn't

  help it. He needed too much light on things that light shriveled.

  No, she wouldn't tell him. She would want to come out and do

  it again, and she couldn't if he spoiled it for her.

  Through the window she saw Harry put his paper down on

  his knee and look up at the door. She hurried in, showing him

  the shears to prove what she had gone for. "See, the rust was

  forming already. They'd've been all brown and nasty by

  morning."

  He nodded and smiled at her. "It says in the paper we're

  going to have more trouble with that new loan bill. They put a

  20 • Nineteen Tales of Terror

  lot of difficulties in our way. _Somebody has to loan money

  when people want to borrow."

  "I don't understand loans," she said. "Somebody told me

  your company had title to nearly every automobile in town."

  He laughed. "Well, not all, but a good many of them, anyway. When times are a little bit hard, we make money."

  "It sounds terrible," she observed. "It sounds like taking unfair advantage."

  He folded the p
aper and put it on the table beside his chair.

  "No, I don't think it's unfair," he said. "The people must have

  the money, and we supply it. The law regulates the interest rate.

  We haven't anything to do with that."

  She stretched her pretty arms and fingers on the chair, as she

  had seen them through the window. "I suppose it really isn't

  unfair," she said. "It just sounds as though you took advantage

  of people when they were down."

  Harry looked seriously into the fire for a long time. Mary

  could see him, and she knew he was worrying about what she

  said. Well, it would do him no harm to see what business really

  was like. Things seemed righter when you did them than when

  you thought about them. A little mental housecleaning mightn't

  be a bad thing for Harry.

  After a little, he looked over at her. "Dear, you don't think

  it's unfair practice, do you?"

  "Why, I don't know anything about loans. How can I tell

  what is fair?"

  Harry insisted, "But do you feel it's unfair? Are you ashamed

  of my business? I wouldn't like it if you were."

  Suddenly Mary felt very glad and pleased. "I'm not ashamed,

  silly. Every one has a right to make a living. You do what you

  do well."

  "You're sure, now?"

  "Of course I'm sure, silly."

  After she was in bed in her own little bedroom she heard a

  faint click and saw the door knob turn, and then turn slowly

  back. The door was locked. It was a signal; there were things

  Mary didn't like to talk about. The lock was an answer to a

  question, a clean, quick, decisive answer. It was peculiar about

  Harry, though. He always tried the door silently. It seemed as

  though he didn't want her to know he had tried it. But she

  always did know. He was sweet and gentle. It seemed to make

  him ashamed when he turned the knob and found the door

  locked.

  Mary pulled the light chain, and when her eyes had become

  accustomed to the dark, she looked out the window at her garden in the half moonlight. Harry was sweet, and understanding, too. That time about the dog. He had come running into the

  'llle White Quail • 2 1

  house, really running. His face was s o red and excited that

  Mary had a nasty shock. She thought there had been an accident. Later in the evening she had a headache from the shock.

  Harry had shouted, "Joe Adams-his Irish Terrier bitch had

  puppies. He's going to give me one! Thoroughbred stock, red

  as strawberries!" He had really wanted one of the pups. It hurt

  Mary that he couldn't have one. But she was proud of his quick

  understanding of the situation. When she explained how a dog

  would-do things on the plants of her garden, or even dig in her

  flower beds, how, worst of all, a dog would keep the birds

  away from the pool, Harry understood. He might have trouble

  with complicated things, like that vision from the garden, but

  he understood about the dog. Later in the evening, when her

  head ached, he soothed her and patted Florida Water on her

  head. That was the curse of imagination. Mary had seen, actually seen the dog in her garden, and the dug holes, and ruined plants. It was almost as bad as though it actually happened.

  Harry was ashnmed, but really he couldn't help it if she had

  such an imagination. Mary couldn't blame him, how could he

  have known?

  v

  Late in the afternoon, when the sun had gone behind the hill,

  there was a time Mary called the really-garden-time. Then the

  high school girl was in from school and had taken charge of the

  kitchen. It was almost a sacred time. Mary walked out into the

  garden and across the lawn to a folding chair half behind one of

  the lawn oaks. She could watch the birds drinking in the pool

  from there. She could really feel the garden. When Harry

  came home from the office, he stayed in the house and read his

  paper until she came in from the garden, star-eyed. It made her

  unhappy to be disturbed.

  The summer was just breaking. Mary looked into the kitchen

  and saw that everything was all right there. She went through

  the living room and lighted the laid fire, and then she was ready

  for tt.e garden. The sun had just dropped behind the hill, and

  the blue gauze of the evening had settled among the oaks.

  Mary thought, "It's like millions of not quite invisible fairies

  coming into my garden. You can't se� one of them, but the

  millions change the color of the air." She smiled to herself at

  the nice thought. The clipped lawn was damp and fresh with

  watering. The brilliant cinerarias threw little haloes of color

  into the air. The fuchsia trees were loaded with blooms. The

  buds, like little red Christmas tree ornaments, and the open

  blooms like ballet-skirted ladies. They were so right, the

  fuchsias, so ahsolutely right. And they discouraged the enemy

  on the other side, the brush and scrubby, untrimmed trees.

  22

  Nineteen Tales ol Terror

  •

  Mary walked across the lawn in the evening to her chair, and

  sat down. She could hear the birds gathering to come down to

  the pool. "Making up parties," she thought, "coming to my

  garden in the evening. How they must love it! How I would

  like to come to my garden for the first time. If I could be two

  people -'Good evening, come into the garden, Mary.' 'Oh,

  isn't it lovely.' 'Yes, I like it, especially at this time. Quiet, now,

  Mary. Don't frighten the birds.' " She sat as still as a mouse.

  Her lips were parted with expectancy. In the brush the quail

  twittered sharply. A yellowhammer dropped to the edge of the

  pool. Two little flycatchers flickered out over the water and

  stood still in the air, beating their wings. And then the quail ran

  out, with funny little steps. They stopped and cocked their

  heads, to see whether it was safe. Their leader, a big fellow with

  a crest like a black question mark, sounded the bugle-like "All

  clear" call, and the band came down to drink.

  And then it happened, the wonderful thing. Out of the brush

  ran a white quail. Mary froze. Yes, it was a quail, no doubt of

  it, and white as snow. Oh, this was wonderful! A shiver of

  pleasure, a bursting of pleasure swelled in Mary's breast. She

  held her breath. The dainty little white hen quail went to the

  other side of the pool, away from the ordinary quail. She

  paused and looked around, and then dipped her beak in the

  water.

  ••Why," Mary cried to herself, "she's like mel" A powerful

  ecstasy quivered in her body. "She's like the essence of me, an

  essence boiled down to utter purity. She must be the queen of

  the quail. She makes every lovely thing that ever happened to

  me one thing.''

  The white quail dipped her beak again and threw back her

  head to swallow.

  The memories welled in Mary and filled her chest. Something

  sad, always something sad. The packages that came; untying

  the string was the ecstasy. The thing in the package was never

  quite-

  The marvelous candy from Italy. "Don't ea
t it, dear. It's

  prettier than it's good." M ary never ate it, but looking at it was

  an ecstasy like this.

  "What a pretty girl Mary is. She's like a gentian, so quiet."

  The hearing was an ecstasy like this.

  "Mary dear, be very brave now. Your father has-passed

  away.'' The first moment of loss was an ecstasy like this.

  The white quail stretched a wing backward and smoothed

  down the feathers with her beak. "This is the me that was

  everything beautiful. This is the center of me, my heart.''

  Tbe White Qmall • 23

  VI

  The blue air became purple in the garden. The fuchsia buds

  blazed like little candles. And then a gray shadow moved out of

  the brush. Mary's mouth dropped open. She sat paralyzed with

  fear. A gray cat crept like death out of the brush, crept toward

  the pool and the drinking birds. Mary stared in horror. Her

  hand rose up to her tight throat. Then she broke the paralysis.

  She screamed terribly. The quail flew away on muttering wings.

  The cat bounded back into the brush. Still Mary screamed and

  screamed. Harry ran out of the house crying, "Mary! What is

  it, Mary?"

  She shuddered when he touched her. She began to cry hysterically. He took her up in his arms and carried her into the house, and into her own room. She lay quivering on the bed.

  "What was it, · dear? What frightened you?"

  "It was a cat," she moaned. "It was creeping up on the

  birds." She sat up; her eyes blazed. "Harry, you must put out

  poison. Tonight you simply must put out some poison for that

  cat."

  "Lie back, dear. You've had a shock."

  "Promise me you'll put out poison." She looked closely at

  him and saw a rebellious light come into his eyes. "Promise."

  "Dear," he apologized, "some dog might get it. Animals suffer terribly when they get poison."

  "I don't care," she cried. "I �on't want any animals in my

  garden, any kind."

  "No," he said. "I won't do that. No, I can't do that. But I'll

  get up early in the morning. I'll take the new air gun and I'll

  shoot that . cat so he'll never come back. The air gun shoots

  hard. It'll make a hurt the cat won't forget."

  It was the first thing he had ever refused. She didn't know

  how to combat it; but her head ached, terribly. When it ached