"Maybe he's gotten up and gone home," Mom said, and she rode back to see. In a short while she returned, sobbing. "No—he's not there."
"Well, he's got to be somewhere,'' Dad said. "People don't evaporate." Steve called out, but even as he did, he knew they would not hear him. Reluctantly they rode away.
When the forest began to get dark, Steve gathered some branches and made himself a bed. Then he lay down, aware of those glowing eyes watching him. He was hungry, but he hadn't found any food. The Yamadan, it seemed, ate only vegetation. But Steve didn't think he was hungry enough to eat leaves.
Trying to fall asleep was difficult. Steve thought of his family. Poor Mom had been terribly upset, and Adele blamed herself for suggesting the race. But Irwin—Irwin was the one who worried Steve most. The boy would be alone in his bedroom tonight, and he didn't like to be alone. Maybe Dad would sleep in the upper bunk, Steve thought, though Adele would be better. Irwin felt safer around Adele. He loved Dad, but his father sometimes scared him. Not that Dad ever yelled at Irwin. He never even raised his voice. But he yelled at the rest of them and that bothered the timid little boy.
When daylight crept weakly through the dense overhead growth, Steve got up, ravenously hungry. In a small clearing he saw a huckleberry bush loaded with plump, dark berries. Reaching out to pick them, he paused with his hand in midair.
"Oh no!" he squawked, his blood seeming to freeze. His arm was hairy! He tore open his shirt, horrified to see long brown hair covering him. Savagely he grabbed at it, feeling pain as he pulled the hair. But it did no good. Shivers shook his body, and he clutched the shirt front over his hairy chest, hoping that by hiding it, it would go away. He moaned in anguish.
But hunger was stronger than dismay, and Steve
stuffed the berries into his mouth until there wasn't a single one left. Only then did he look for the Yamadan who was squatting by a small swampy pool drinking the brackish water.
All day Steve followed the hairy monster. Twice he saw Dad and some troopers off at a distance, searching the woods. But he was too far away to hear their words. And the next morning when he tasted some leaves, he had to admit that they didn't taste bad at all. To his horror, though, his hands were becoming clawed.
"No, I don't want to be a Yamadan!" he screeched at the monster. "I want to be a boy. I want to go home. Dad needs me to help out."
But the Yamadan merely wheezed and plodded around. And Steve, though he couldn't wheeze back, was beginning to understand.
"I don't want to understand you," he cried out, but it was useless. He was afraid that by the time he could communicate to the Yamadan that he wanted to go home, it would be too late. By then he would be a Yamadan, and most likely he would be satisfied with his fate. He probably wouldn't even remember that he had ever been a boy—or had even known Dad, Mom, Adele, or Emmy. Would he even forget Irwin?
Steve wondered how Nobara's uncle had made himself understood. "He talked to animals," Nobara had said. So Steve talked and talked. But it did no good. By nightfall he was growing horns, and his head was getting big and round.
The next morning Steve ate leaves and enjoyed them. He even played games with the Yamadan, and he enjoyed that, too. Scrambling over the undergrowth was not so difficult now, and he didn't notice the steamy air.
"I don't want to be changed," he pleaded. But the Yamadan only wheezed noisily, and Steve understood it to mean, "We're going to be good friends."
Just then Steve heard a voice call his name. He raced to a spot where he could see people moving below. He saw Dad with Irwin, Adele, Mom, Emmy, and several of the sheriff's men. But it was Irwin he watched. It was Irwin calling him. In anguish he realized he could no longer understand the words his brother was saying, but the boy's 36 voice was plaintive.
Steve turned to the Yamadan, his heart aching with longing to comfort his little brother. "You've got to let me go," he pleaded. "Irwin needs me—more than you do. Don't you understand? I'm needed at home." He felt his own eyes burning . . . glowing. . . .
The Yamadan seemed to be thinking back to the companion he had just lost and how much they had needed each other. "You can go back," his wheezing seemed to say. "I'll find someone else. Here, I'll take you down to them."
Then the Yamadan picked him up, and even as they traveled, Steve realized that his own body was slowly changing back to normal. He tried not to breathe as he was clutched close to the stinking body, but the stench invaded his nostrils anyway. Suddenly the Yamadan lifted him high and tossed him forcibly away. Crashing into something, Steve blacked out.
When he came to, he was in a sunny glade. He staggered to his feet, aware of voices in the distance, and he began to run toward them through the sun-dappled woods. In a short while he saw his family.
"Dad—Mom!" he yelled as they rushed to him.
"Are you all right?" Adele demanded.
"You poor dear, you must be starved." Mom was tearful and hugged him close.
"You must've had a concussion," Dad suggested. Everyone talked at once, firing questions at him. Irwin wound his arms around Steve's waist and stared up at him rapturously. "You'll come home now, Stevie?" he begged.
"You bet," Steve assured him. "I'll be in the top bunk tonight."
"Where have you been, young fellow?" a trooper asked.
Without thinking, Steve blurted, "I've been with a Yamadan in the jungle." But after one look at Dad's around him, he grinned sheepishly. "I don't know where I've been. I guess I stumbled around and got lost. I've had some weird dreams."
Yes, he decided, that's what really happened. He had talked to Nobara and had his head filled with all those crazy, scary legends. After being knocked out, he had come to while Adele had gone for help. Then he had wandered off and gotten lost, imagining himself turning into a Yamadan.
No one had a better explanation, so by the time the troopers had gone, and the family had settled down, Steve was convinced that the whole incredible incident was the result of his being knocked out in the fall.
That night he lay in his upper bunk, listening to Irwin's quiet breathing. Adele had told him that in his absence she had slept in the room, hoping to calm Irwin enough so he would sleep. But it hadn't worked—he had cried all night. Now, with Irwin at peace, Steve was content. In moments he fell into the first sound sleep he'd had in days.
The next morning Steve overslept. When he woke up, he realized Irwin was gone. Dressing quickly, he went to the kitchen and made himself breakfast. No one was around so he went out to the barn.
"Where is everybody?" he asked Mom. "Your dad and Adele are out harvesting corn. Emmy's driving the cows to pasture," she replied, gathering the eggs.
"Where's Irwin?"
"I haven't seen him. I thought he was still asleep."
Steve opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. No sense in alarming Mom. Maybe Irwin was in Adele's room.
He raced back toward the house, then came to an abrupt halt. Footprints—big ones—in the dusty yard! All the horror of his days in the dark forest rushed in on him, and involuntarily he tore open his shirt. His chest wasn't hairy! And his hands were normal. But he couldn't control the shivers that ran over him. It was the Yamadan! One really did exist! But why was it here? Fearfully he glanced over his shoulder, but there was no big hairy creature there. In a state of panic he dashed beyond the barn and looked out across the pasture. There was Irwin riding the horses with Emmy, driving the cows before them.
He grinned in relief. Boy, he was letting this Yamadan thing get to him. A few big footprints and he had almost gone bananas. Irwin must have gotten up after Mom left the kitchen, then joined Emmy when he saw her going out to the pasture. Their laughter drifted back to him.
Steve started out to the cornfield to help Dad and Adele, but they were at the far end. He saw Nobara sitting on the front step of his cabin, and on an impulse, Steve hurried over.
"Tell me more about the Yamadan," he said, feeling foolish, yet wanting to hear the story.
&nbs
p; Nobara looked frightened. "No, I dare not. I'm forbidden to speak of it."
"You said it had horns. Were they like antlers?" Steve persisted.
"No—like goats."
"And a head like a melon?"
Nobara gasped. "You have seen it?" "And it stinks like garbage?"
The old man seemed about to faint. "Yes—like garbage." His bony fingers clutched Steve's arm. "You saw the Yamadan?" Then he shook his head and closed his eyes without releasing Steve. "No—only one man has ever seen it and returned." "I saw it."
The ancient eyes snapped open. "You saw the Yamadan," he repeated in disbelief.
"At first I became covered with hair, then my hands became claws." Steve went on, "I began eating leaves—"
"Yes, yes, the same as my uncle." The old man stiffened. "If he let you go, who will be the new Yamadan?"
"He said he'd find someone else." Steve wondered at the old man's obvious fright. "When your uncle returned, who took his place as the new Yamadan?"
There was a long silence, and suddenly Steve realized that the expression in the old man's eyes was not just sadness. There was a sort of horror.
From the depths of Nobara's frail body came the whisper of a voice. "My father. The day my uncle returned, my father saw footprints and the eyes of fire. He told me. I never saw him again."
Steve felt his legs turn to rubber. Dad! Would Dad be turned into a horrible hairy monster? Dad, who didn't believe in such things?
Steve went racing to the cornfield where he saw Adele. She was alone. "Where's Dad?" he croaked in fear.
"Heading over to the pasture. He's worried about Irwin."
"Irwin? Why?"
"Just before Dad and I started over here, Irwin came out of the house and told Dad he had seen funny eyes last night. Dad's afraid Irwin is coming down with a fever or something."
Steve felt as cold as marble. Before he could organize his tangled, horrified thoughts, he heard Emmy's scream cutting across the farm.
"Irwin's hurt. His horse threw him-—in the woods! He's out—cold!"
"No!" Steve cried out in agony. "No, Yamadan, not Irwin! Not Irwin!"
With glassy eyes he watched Dad race to the woods. It was too late.
Monster Blood
by CHARLES LAND
Monsters were something you believed in or you didn't. Keith Volmer was a believer. He was a monster buff. Some guys collect bugs or stamps, but Keith collected monsters. And he didn't settle for just any monster like Frankenstein or Wolfman. Keith devoted himself to the basilisk—the horrendous monster of the Middle Ages.
Once Keith began to specialize on the basilisk, he soon learned to know and value the works of Professor Zembeck, world authority on the subject. And as he xeroxed illustrations or diagrams from the Zembeck tomes, the professor took on heroic proportions in Keith's mind. So when he read that Professor Zembeck had actually rented Abbot Castle as a retreat to house his books, ancient manuscripts, and artifacts, Keith was determined to meet him.
Riding his bicycle up to the castle gate, Keith stared at the stone tower, brooding and silent in the afternoon shadows. Though he knew his plan was way out, he was
determined to go through with it.
The wrought-iron gate sagged open. Keith chained his bike to a rusted iron scroll and walked resolutely to the massive oak door. In T-shirt and jeans, he looked like any boy out to find an after-school job.
He pounded the bronze knocker, shaped like the head of a hideous gargoyle. The hollow sound was enough to summon the dead. He pounded again and again until, at last, a small window in the door opened. Two eyes drilled through him.
"What do you want?"
"Do you need any help, sir?"
"Go away, boy." The tiny window snapped shut.
Suddenly it opened again. "How old are you?"
"Twelve, last July."
The huge oak door swung back. "Come in! I'm Professor Zembeck."
In the great mirror across the hall, Keith saw the professor look him over. "You're a well set-up boy," he said. "I can use you."
Keith felt the magnetic power of the man. Although not much taller than Keith, he seemed to bend over him. His domed forehead and long stringy hair added height to his slender body, and his voice boomed with authority. "Tell me, boy, what is a basilisk?"
"It's a monster, half rooster and half snake."
"Very good," the professor murmured. "Basilisks are little known today. How are you so knowledgeable?"
"I collect monsters. Pictures that is. I am a Zembeck fan. I have xeroxes of every monster picture of yours I can find. Maybe you'll autograph one for me."
The professor looked pleased. "Well, well, I think I can even do better than that. But we have work to do. Let's get on with it."
Keith followed Professor Zembeck across the flagstone 42 floor to the tower arch. The tower smelled musty and damp.
It wasn't as old as it seemed. Fifty years ago the ancient stone farmhouse had been remodeled into a castle by a family who wanted one. Now it was hard to rent. People didn't live like that anymore.
"I have some fragile material to unpack. Are you a careful handler? What is your name, boy?"
"Keith Volmer."
"Keith will do well enough. A good Scottish name. My godfather's name was Keith."
The professor seemed to run out of breath as they climbed the spiral stone stairway. Keith was full of questions, but he thought it best to keep cool and listen. At the top of the stairs, Professor Zembeck pushed through the red velour draperies.
"Come in, boy." Keith wondered if the professor had already forgotten his name. "Come in, come in," the professor repeated, and Keith followed him into the tower room. Boxes were everywhere. An ornately carved chest stood in the center of the room. A long worktable was pushed against the wall. Beside it stood a refrigerator. It was then, looking beyond all this, that Keith saw the cage— large and strong enough for a gorilla.
Professor Zembeck's eyes seemed to give Keith a careful appraisal. Picking up a carton from the floor and handing it to Keith he said, "Open it."
Keith put it on the table gingerly. "Is it a basilisk?"
"It's a Jenny Haniver—-a fake basilisk," explained the professor. "During the sixteenth century there was a ready market for basilisks. Malefactors created monsters out of skate and ray fish. By adding a few feathers and a snake, these creatures could be made to look like basilisks—or what folks thought basilisks looked like. Open it up and take a look."
Keith carefully peeled off the gummed tape and 43 opened the carton. In a sealed specimen case, under glass, lay the most loathsome creature he had ever seen.
"Yuk ... I'm glad it's a fake."
"You will note," the professor said, "that the face of the ray has a vaguely human appearance. By pulling and snipping—and adding feathers, a length of snake, and a rooster's head—we come up with a pretty good basilisk."
"So that's a Jenny Haniver," Keith said.
"I have the most extensive collection in the world. In these boxes are bits and pieces of creatures to be put together. Most are not mounted. You will find it fascinating work."
Somehow, Keith's plan was not working out. He had come to see a monster, not to cut and paste a collection of fakes. His glance rested on the steel cage.
"What's that for, sir?"
"Ach, I almost forgot. That is for the chest. Give me a hand. We will push it into the cage."
The chest was a masterwork of intricate carving. As Keith's hand gripped the oak surface, the carved snake squirmed under his palm. The thing was alive. The chest became a writhing mass of serpentine horror, but the professor didn't seem to notice. They pushed the chest up to the cage.
"Now we lift," the professor said. As they set the chest down in the center of the cage, Keith saw a carved rooster's head on the top of the lid. The beak was open, but completely sealed with wax. There was a brass inscription beneath it.
Keith asked the professor what it said.
"
Read it. Ach, I forgot boys are not taught Latin nowadays. What a pity. But it's just as well. We have work to do."
"But Professor Zembeck, I have to know."
"Why?"
"The wood snake on the chest came alive in my hand."
The professor's eyes radiated excitement. "Ah, this is most interesting. Then you indeed are the one to know. Any boy can handle the unpacking, but you have sensitivity— you are the one I have been looking for. It is your destiny to be here."
Keith became more and more uneasy. Standing in a cage with this strange little man was almost frightening. "Professor, how could anyone know what a basilisk looks like? If you see one you're dead. Even a basilisk can't look at himself in a mirror, or he's dead."
"Bright boy. My reasoning exactly. That's why I collect Jenny Hanivers. My search led me to this—"
"The chest?"
"It's not really a chest. It is the carved coffin of the only basilisk in existence."
"Wow!" Keith said. "Is it alive?"
"No, but that's why I hired you. You will help make it come alive."
Wondering how this could be, Keith followed the little man to his workbench. The professor seemed to be searching for something.
"How did you find the chest, Professor Zembeck?"
"My studies led me to a manuscript written by a scholar in the sixteenth century. In it was an account of the carved coffin and its basilisk. It took me years to trace it down."
"But who could capture a basilisk without looking at it?"
"A blind man," said the professor. "A blind wood-carver carved the coffin. Then, with the help of a wizard, he enticed the basilisk into it."
In the lower cabinet the professor found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pair of dark glasses.
"A real wizard?" asked Keith.
"All scientists were called wizards in those days, especially if they worked in the dark arts. This unknown wizard wrote the inscription on the coffin."
"You said you would tell me what it says," Keith reminded him.
The professor polished the dark glasses. "Very well. Translated from the Latin it reads: 'From the cock's mouth remove the wax. Then pour in twelve ounces of cock's blood, mixed with one ounce of youth's blood. The youth must be twelve years and his blood freely given.' "
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 3
