A Touch of the Creature

by Charles Beaumont

  He waited for a while, listening to the Pipes. They were louder than he had ever heard them, pulsing in the air, descending and ascending along their melodies. Clearer now, sadder, somehow, slower than before.

  He hefted the gun in his pocket and rapped sharply upon the door.

  There was no reaction. The melody continued, broke from any refinements and stated itself with simple clarity. Clayton sensed that this had happened, that the music had suddenly begun a summation.

  He rapped again, glancing back over his shoulder down the hall. What if someone should see him, what then? And why shouldn’t someone see him, he wondered, aware that the music had come to a soft stop.

  The door opened abruptly; it swung wide and the darkness of the room came into the hall.

  An old man with dark brown skin stood in the doorway smiling. About the old man’s head was a great turban, spotlessly white: the tassel fell over his shoulder. There was a long beard and mustache, edged with grey.

  The old man said nothing.

  Clayton extended his hand, and noticed the firm grip that met his.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said.

  “By no means, sir. I am so happy that you chose to visit me. Come in, won’t you, come in.”

  Clayton walked by the bowed figure into the room and waited for the door to close.

  “Now then, sir,” said the old man, walking to the window and raising the shades. “I do hope that you’ve not come to complain about my music. That would make me very unhappy.”

  Clayton laughed.

  “The other way around, Mr.—”

  “Am. Mr. Am.”

  “Harry Clayton. No, Mr. Am, I certainly did not come to complain. In fact, I like your music so much that I finally decided I’d have to meet you.”

  The old man beamed. Light flaked into the room, and Clayton saw with a shock that there was no furniture. The room was bare, but for a wooden chest, which sat in a corner; only this and unconnected gas pipes and sockets without bulbs.

  Mr. Am squatted down and motioned Clayton to join him.

  “Isn’t it strange, Mr. Clayton, that everyone should like the music! I had thought that perhaps there would be those who might object; consider my amazement at your compliment. Are you a musician, sir?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Don’t care too much for it, actually. But there’s something about those sounds that—well, it’s hard to explain.”

  Mr. Am nodded his head. Then he gestured about the room.

  “You must pardon the spare furnishings: I had not contemplated visitors. My own wants, as you can see, are not demanding.”

  Clayton looked around and then back at the old man. He spoke good English, didn’t seem to be crazy. But what about food, and where did he sleep?

  Already he missed the music. The outside noises were low now, but harsh, and he was returned to his reason for visiting the Indian Piper. It wasn’t clear: only the flute. He had to see it, then logic would follow. But the hunch told him, ask to see the flute.

  “Mr. Clayton, may I ask why you are not out in the street at this time, dancing with the people? It’s a beautiful night for it and the orchestra is very good, all things considered.”

  “I was out for a while,” he lied, “but it’s too hot for parties.”

  “Ah, but this is special, I am told: a celebration to raise funds for the church, or something like that. At any rate,” Mr. Am turned toward the closed window, “it is quite religious.”

  Clayton rose a bit and could see out the window. Black-haired men and women moved nervously, tiredly, their bodies looked close; and little children sat on curbstones, watching with wondrous eyes. He could see gaunt men with red faces standing back against stores, trembling. And for a moment the orchestra, which was playing loudly again, and the fetid odors came into the room.

  “Too hot for parties,” Clayton said.

  “Well then, now that we’ve met, what shall we talk about?”

  “I was thinking, Mr. Am, that maybe I could get you to play that flute for me.”

  “Why, of course, I should be glad to!”

  The old man got up from the floor gracefully and went to the chest in the corner of the room.

  “I generally keep it locked up, you see,” he remarked, “because it is the one thing of value that I own.”

  Mr. Am took from a pocket a large key, which he inserted in the lock of the chest.

  “However, almost any key opens the lock.”

  Mr. Am lifted a crumpled paper bag from the chest, carefully closed the lid and walked back to Clayton. He reached into the bag.

  Clayton’s heart began to pump the moment he saw it. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect, perhaps an ordinary piccolo­ or a wooden stick, but—this! He realized that his mouth had opened, and now the logic formed swiftly in his brain. The reason he had come, the thoughts he had considered in his own room.

  The old man held in his hands a slender shaft, perforated from tip to tip with gems and pearls and substances Clayton could barely guess at. In the middle, the shaft separated into four thinner prongs, each carved in gilt and woven between what appeared to be emeralds and sapphires. Everywhere the jewels seemed not merely affixed, but placed to form a design; it burned and flashed, but was delicate. It became the center of the room.

  “Is it not a handsome thing?” Mr. Am asked.

  Clayton swallowed and managed to look away. He struggled to keep composure in his voice.

  “This is what you play the music on, is it?”

  “Yes, these are the Pipes. Not quite the usual idea of what they should look like, I suppose; however . . .”

  The old man put the instrument to his lips and immediately there issued a thin note that fell from one of the tips and mellowed into silence. Then other notes followed, singly stated at first, then combining into harmonies, with melody after melody predominating.

  Clayton could not hear the music; he stared at the Pipes, solidifying the idea in his mind. He did not notice that Mr. Am had stopped playing the Pipes and was looking at him.

  He fidgeted uneasily. “Please go on,” he said.

  Clayton watched the old man replace the instrument’s reed, saw the old fingers curl about the jewelled prongs. He tried identifying: there was a band of what could be nothing but pure gold, at the fork of the prongs; and there were sapphires, amethysts, great pearls and rubies that were the redness of blood. Unquestionably the object was worth a fortune; you didn’t have to be a lapidary to tell that, you had only to know the look of fakes.

  Before him, what he had thought lost: the road back to the old days. And he had made sure that no one had seen him in the hall . . .

  He would have to think carefully; talking would give him time to think. The old man was senile, obviously, didn’t know what he had, or worse, didn’t care. He would have to talk awhile.

  “Mr. Am, what exactly is that called? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

  Mr. Am took the instrument from his lips once more and put it in his lap.

  “It is called by many names; in fact—and this is interesting—almost everyone thinks of it in a different way. But we may call it the Pipes.”

  “A beautiful thing, all right. Tell me, is it old, I mean, are there many like it?”

  The old man laughed loudly.

  “Oh yes, indeed. There have been more imitations of it than of anything else I can think of. They have all been spurious, however; none has ever achieved precisely the tone.”

  “Why is that? You’re not going to tell me it’s the only one in existence?”

  “Exactly that, sir. There is a story behind its manufacture, which perhaps you would care to hear—I see that you are taken with the Pipes. Briefly, in antique times men of great wisdom worked at one goal and one only: to produce the object you see in my hands. For lifetimes and in many parts of the world they toiled willfully—and it must be said that at times they came quite close. But their experiment
s always ended poorly, they were disappointed and died disappointed. For years all the great wise men tried and failed, made pipes and thought that they would be sweet and found them to be harsh and one with their world, which they hated. Until it was thought by everyone that the Pipes would never be! The men gave up trying; they went back to their homes and lived in darkness.

  “But then, to the consternation of one and all, sir, an old man whom none had suspected of special talents decided one day to climb a hill; and he climbed the hill up beyond the clouds and when he returned, he had with him the Pipes!”

  Clayton heard only half of what Mr. Am was saying. He got the point of historical value, if there was anything at all in the story, even the hint of truth; but he rejected this idea. No, it would never do to take it to a large firm. There would be publicity and the red tape he once knew so well. Break it up and take it to pawn shops—not the nests along the Bowery, but the ones in the office buildings, where rich wives took their husbands’ cuff-links.

  “And he was doubted. The people listened to the music, heard the golden tones and doubted. So, the old man became angry and gave the Pipes to a thief. It has passed from that time to this by such men, who learned the Pipes, who wished only to play and be heard.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Oh yes! So, you can see the strange value of the Pipes, can you not—the value apart from mundane considerations?”

  “Yes, yes, that I can, Mr. Am.”

  The old man sighed and refolded his legs.

  “The thing was,” he said, “the people expected an instrument full of complex intricacies; when the greybeard returned with an art object which any simpleton could play, then no one believed.”

  “You say it’s not hard to learn, then?” Clayton asked.

  “By no means. One need only the honest desire to learn: the rest comes, you might say, by ear. Though the one consideration is of much importance. Here, you can see—there are only ten openings.”

  Mr. Am passed the Pipes to Clayton.

  He felt the cool strength of an emerald upon one finger and looked down at a constellation of gems. He hesitated, then put the ebony reed to his lips and pushed a breath into it, remembering the sweetness of the melodies.

  A wild, horrible screech suddenly echoed from the walls. Quickly, he pulled the Pipes from his face.

  The old man smiled complacently.

  “Mr. Clayton,” he said slowly, “have you decided yet how you are going to go about stealing the Pipes from me?”

  He had wasted too much time! Now he would have to act fast.

  “What gave you such an idea?”

  “The color in your cheeks, the bulge in your pocket. Or say that I am a mind-reader, if you choose. Whatever the case, I confess interest in what is to follow.”

  Clayton rose, feeling foolish and embarrassed. He thought of the tableau in his room a short time before, the picture of a pale thin man with a gun to his head, amid dirt and cheapness and . . .

  He took the revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Mr. Am.

  “Mr. Clayton, in prison you were acquainted with convicted murderers—did they strike you as a pleasant lot?”

  “How did you know that?” Clayton snapped. “How did you know that I was—”

  “I have seen other ex-convicts; I recognize the pallor and surely you must know that the suit is obvious.”

  “Then you know who I am?”

  “I am well acquainted with your background, sir; in fact, I studied your career with much fascination from its beginning. You had great potentialities, Mr. Clayton, really great. The power of inducement, the power of persuasion, all the great things a man can wield, those you had in abundance. Many thought you would actually live up to your promises, that the world would indeed be a better place—”

  “Shut up.”

  “I have no doubt that there are many who champion you even today, who insist you were wronged by the law, a martyr of a vicious political system.”

  “Stop it!”

  The old man carefully placed the Pipes on the floor and pushed them toward Clayton.

  “Well then, since you intend to shoot me in any event, surely you cannot object to a few questions from an old admirer. The orchestra has begun again in the street and no one would hear even if I were to scream. Oh yes, you have me entirely at your mercy; so let us chat just for a bit.”

  Clayton squatted on the floor, not knowing why. The power of the idea was gone and it remained fixed, so why shouldn’t he listen? Here was someone at least who remembered him. He would do what he had to do: perhaps there was not such a hurry after all.

  “If you know so much about me, there doesn’t seem much to discuss.”

  “On the contrary! I must ask you some things that would otherwise bother me.”

  “You know I’ve got to kill you now that you’ve told me these things, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then ask your questions.”

  “First, I should like you to go back eighteen years, to the day you received the inheritance. I should like you to examine the memory for a moment.”

  Clayton started to object, then found he could not check his mind; suddenly, as though commanded, it raced back. Only vaguely was he aware of where he was, of the gun in his hands.

  He remembered.

  “You had other ideas then, Mr. Clayton. You were going to take the money and buy yourself power, that is true. But do you recall what you were going to do with that power?”

  The voice was distant, far . . . Clayton felt the stench of the wooden tenements and the brick kilns full of starving people; he saw the long lines of hungry men and screaming children and the young men suddenly made old and the leather rotting from their soles. He remembered.

  He pulled his mind from the el, from the young man in the el and from the tornado in the canyons of poverty that he had sworn he would not forget.

  The old man’s voice caught him before his finger could curl around the trigger.

  “Now, Mr. Clayton, to the day you discovered the profound influence money could yield in all the hopeless wheels, when you realized that the achievement of your goal was not far distant. I will not move or call for help; I ask merely that you think of a few days, a few highlights in your history that the newspaper scribes somehow neglected. Think of yourself in the state capitol, with the strings depending from every finger, and of the lad in the elevated train on the south side of Chicago.”

  Clayton became frightened. He tried desperately to hold his mind to the present, but it went whirling back to images more vivid than his most vivid nightmares.

  And the question he had avoided came to him now: what had happened? What had happened?

  Then Clayton remembered the little Negro child sitting on the mound of rubbish, holding the whistle to his lips.

  The little Negro child with the whistle and how beautiful the melodies were in the stagnant air; and how he had sworn.

  The memories came rushing now, even as the old man talked. How he had kept promising and losing faith in the promises, losing interest, growing hard.

  “You’re crazy,” Clayton shouted. “You’re just trying to talk your way out of something. The answer to all my little worries is sitting right there beside you.”

  With effort he pulled the gun into position.

  “My bargain was taken,” said Mr. Am, “and you answered the questions the best you could. So then proceed with what you have to do.”

  Clayton gripped the gun firmly and held it at the old man’s stomach.

  His mind was a kaleidoscope of memories.

  He would never give up and put a bullet through his head because he had failed once. No, of course not, that wasn’t Harry Clayton. But that is what he had almost done, a few hours ago, less time, less! So why had he taken the little money they had given him and bought a revolver; why had he come to this dirty building and sat for nights listening to fantastic music?

  Damn the crazy old
man for making him remember, for showing him what he’d tried so hard not to recognize!

  “Is it really too late?” Mr. Am was saying. “Is it? Now that you know, is it too late?”

  “Of course it is!” Clayton screamed. “Yes! Yes!”

  The memories came like sharp needles into his brain, things he had hidden, moulding and shaping themselves into patterns. Into answers.

  The old man held something out to Clayton.

  He looked down. In Mr. Am’s hands was a battered shaft of tin, the peppermint colors faded and the one indentation bent in the middle. Then it was once more the jewelled treasure.

  The old man rose to his feet and straightened his back. He did not smile.

  Clayton stifled the sobs in his throat and clutched the Pipes to his body.

  “I could not force you to come to me,” the old man said, “and I could not make you listen. But you did come and you listened.”

  Clayton felt the strong hands beneath his shoulders, pulling him erect.

  They walked to the window. Below, the street was empty; dim lights fell upon gutter-waste and picked out the colors painted upon the faces of the plaster Saints.

  The old man put the Pipes to Clayton’s lips and adjusted his fingers about the openings.

  “It will take time and at first be very hard, but you will learn now.”

  Before the blackness entered his mind, Clayton heard the one clear note sing into the dark room—

  The same dark room that was empty when he ran to it later, searching for the Indian Piper.

  Lachrymosa

  The little woman with the orange hair made her way through the rows of tombstones with a brisk step and an expression of infinite sadness upon her face. Past the tall stones and large onyx monuments she walked quickly, but by the less ornate reminders of man’s fragile mortality, the little woman paused. Here she would sigh, right an overturned vase, remove a withered flower or take from her bouquet one yellow rose and drop it tenderly to the earth.