The Shadow People

by Margaret St. Clair

  "Is that a waltz?" Carol asked after a moment.

  "I don't know. I guess it could be," I answered. I was feeling glum because my evening out wasn't working better. The dancers, decorously locked in each other's arms, were doing steps that my mother would have recognized. "I don't know why people say this place is hip."

  "I think it's because there's a light show," Carol answered. "They mention a light show in their ads."

  The light show started about ten minutes later. There was a screen, a little larger than the ones used for home movies, and red and green lights swirled on it, with an occasional burst of what looked like the pattern on the bottom of a pressed-glass fruit bowl. Sometimes the fruit-bowl pattern would rotate.

  It was a poor show, but we watched it hopefully, while the orchestra—trio—played tunes that had come from big musical comedies. Once we tried to dance, but stopped in the middle of a number when people kept bumping into us. We took up too much room for the Cardboard Coffin's clientele.

  We went back to our table. I ordered more beer. Then the trio started a familiar-sounding tune.

  Carol recognized it before I did. "Why, it's that Beatles thing," she said, " 'The Fool on the Hill'. They've got the timing all wrong, though."

  "Yeah. Look at the lights! The music must be inspiring him. This is really good."

  Great dark spirals, like tornadoes, were swooping around on the screen, seeming to burrow into it and then open out subterraneously. Perhaps the man at the lights was remembering the Beatles' line, "and the eyes in his head see the world spinning round," and giving an interpretation of it. The stuff was really good, far better than what had gone before, but it was somehow disquieting.

  Carol reached for her handbag. "Let's go, Dick," she said. "I—I'd rather leave, if you don't mind." She looked at me appealingly and got to her feet.

  "O.K.," I answered. I had already paid for what we had consumed. I reached in my pocket for money for the tip and stood up, too.

  Suddenly something seemed to fall into the middle of the dance floor. (Actually, I suppose it had been lobbed in from the door.) An instant later the whole place shook, shook like a flag snapping in a brisk breeze. It was a homemade bomb.

  People began to scream. The music stopped. Neither Carol nor I had been hurt; we were some distance from the floor. I pulled her by the arm toward the emergency exit. "Let's get out of here," I said, "before the pigs come. There's no use in being in a mess."

  She was trembling, but she obeyed. We made our way through an alley and out into the night street. "What was it?" Carol asked as we hurried toward home.

  "I expect somebody disapproved of the Coffin's rock."

  "Rock? That?" She was scornful.

  "Well, of their light show. Or perhaps it was a business rival. People throw bombs easy these days."

  We were nearly home. I heard a siren in the direction from which we had come. "I wish I could find some of the people I used to know," Carol said inconsequentially. "I've looked in the phone book and asked the operator, but nobody's here any more."

  "Are you lonesome, kid?"

  "Not exactly. Alone." She seemed about to say more, but checked herself.

  "Well, I'm here," I said, always the faithful boy friend.

  "I know." She squeezed my arm.

  At breakfast next morning she was much more cheerful. There was a hectic quality to her laughter and smiles, but I didn't realize it at the time. I went to work with her waving good-bye at me from the door, all very devoted and domestic. "Have fun with the camera," I told her in the hall.

  "Oh, I will." She smiled and shut the door.

  I got home a little early. I expected to find Carol in the living room, flipping restlessly from channel to channel on the TV, but she wasn't there. She wasn't in the bedroom or the kitchen.

  I was getting apprehensive. When I opened the bathroom door, I saw that the blind had been drawn and the room was quite dark. Carol—it must be she—was lying in the bathtub.

  I don't know what I thought. As I hurried toward the tub, I tripped over something, and there was a sudden brilliant flash.

  Hurriedly I ran up the window blind. Carol was lying in the tub with her eyes shut, her head drooping to one side, and the water lapping at her nose.

  I pulled the plug and the water, cool to the touch, began to run out. Carol didn't stir. I spread a bathtowel on the floor, lifted her out of the tub, and laid her on it. She seemed to be unconscious. I hadn't really faced the possibility that she might be dead.

  I tried mouth-to-mouth breathing. After only a few exhalations into her mouth, her eyes opened. "Oh, dear," she said dolefully. "What ceiling is that?"

  "It's the bathroom ceiling," I told her. Now that I knew she wasn't drowned, I was getting angry with her. "What was the big idea? What were you doing in the dark in the water? What were you trying to do?"

  "I was trying to get a photograph of my soul." She sneezed.

  "A photograph—?"

  "Yes. You see, ever since we were in the basement, I've been afraid my—my soul would get lost. You remember how everything seemed to open up?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I've been afraid. That other world—what Fay called Macrocosmos—is such a big place. My soul could just get lost in it. Like a marble rolling into a crack."

  I couldn't call her fear absurd; I remembered too clearly the moment when the impossible glories of that Overworld had come tunneling down onto the spot where I stood. I was silent.

  "You understand," Carol went on, "it isn't dying I'm afraid of. It's having my soul get lost. Last night, when we saw the light show and then there was the explosion, I was afraid for a minute that Macrocosmos was opening up again. When I realized it was only a bomb, I felt a little better. But I wanted to put my soul in some safe place. I knew that if I could do that, I'd be all right."

  "The explosion itself didn't bother you? I mean, the fact that somebody was trying to kill the Cardboard Coffin's customers?"

  "Of course, it bothered me. Violence makes our world look thin, more like a curtain, and Macrocosmos seem closer. That's one of the reasons I have trouble forgetting what happened in the basement—as you said, people throw bombs so easy these days.

  "Could I have a towel, Dick? I'm awfully wet."

  I handed her a towel from the rack and she began to dry herself and wring the ends of her long hair out into the towel. "I thought if I could get my soul on film I'd be safer. I knew it wasn't a very good idea, but I tried to believe it would work because I couldn't think of anything better. It was the only idea I had."

  "But what were you doing in the bathtub? What did that have to do with it?"

  "I thought that if I tried scrying while I was in the water it might make me feel a little detached from myself, enough to be able to get a picture of my soul. I had the camera set up and a cord fixed so I could pull the shutter release when I felt the right moment had come. Only I fainted before I had any occasion to pull the cord." Still sitting on the floor, she reached for the roll of toilet paper, pulled some off, and blew her nose into it. "You don't think I'm crazy, do you, Dick?"

  "No." This was true; I felt that Carol had been trying to cope with an extraordinary experience by the only means she had available, which were ordinary ones. "What were you scrying in?" I asked.

  "A drinking glass. I must have dropped it in the water when I fainted."

  "Did you see anything in the glass that frightened you?"

  "I don't think so. It was the hot water and sitting still while I scried. There was a kind of pressure around my heart, and then things got black."

  She must have been in the bath a long time for the water to get as cold as it was when I pulled her out. I thought of the bone I had found on the bathroom floor. "Don't do it again," I said finally.

  "Oh, I won't." She started to get up, rather shakily, and I helped her to her feet.

  "But you're still worried about your soul getting lost?"

  "Yes." She didn't look at me
as she said it. I put my arm around her in a way that was meant to be comforting.

  "I feel better now that I've told you about it, really I do," she said, and with that I had to be content. I hoped it was true.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It rained a lot that year. Besides the increasing civil disorder, I remember chiefly the short, dark days and the constant rain. Christmas came; Carol and I gave each other presents, but skipped the tree. We were seeing a good deal of Fay. She called up often and made dates with us.

  Fay had acquired a boy friend, a dark, heavy-set man named Howard something. He talked so much about the coming revolution and the use of dynamite that I suspected him of being a police spy. Neither Carol nor I liked him, and we tried to get out of invitations he was included in. We both thought he was unworthy of Fay.

  One rainy evening early in January, I called a taxi—the safest means of transportation—to take us to Fay's for dinner. We knew that Howard was going to be there, but we didn't want to make our dislike of him too obvious. He greeted us with his usual numbing handshake and then went out in the kitchen to get drinks, leaving me and Fay alone in the living room. Carol was taking off her coat in the bedroom.

  "What a night," I said, for want of something better to say. "It wasn't much colder and gloomier down below than it is in the Bright World tonight."

  Fay gave me an odd look. I felt that I had said something exceedingly tactless, though I couldn't think where the tactlessness lay. After all, she was not exactly a virgin where knowledge of Underearth was concerned.

  Before she could make any answer, Howard—he preferred to be called "Howie"—came back with the drinks. He had brought bourbon for himself and sherry for the rest of us. "Here's to anarchy," he said morosely, raising his glass, and we all drank.

  The meal was terrible. Fay was ordinarily a good cook, but that night she seemed to be laboring under a tension that made her scorch the frozen peas, undercook the fish, and serve the salad with tap water clinging to the lettuce leaves. She kept holding her wine glass out to Howie to be refilled. By the time we had got through with the entree, she was definitely tanked.

  She started to take our plates out to the kitchen. Suddenly she put her hand to her lips. "Excuse me," she said faintly, and made a dash for the bathroom.

  When she came back, she was pale, but she seemed to feel better. Dessert brought no incidents. Over the coffee, Howard—Howie—discussed various homemade explosives, and then, with no transition at all, got on the topic of tarot cards.

  "I've always been interested in the occult," he informed us gloomily. Howie's gloom was almost as striking as his fondness for dynamite. "Tarot packs are scarce items these days. When I saw these in the Thrift Shop, I snapped them up."

  He got the big cards—the de Laurence deck—and the book that accompanies them from the pocket of his safari jacket.

  "You put them out in the form of a cross," he explained, "and then you look up what the cards mean in the book. It's simple. I'll show you how it works. I'll do a reading for her." He indicated Fay.

  The tarot had been an in thing long before I had gone below in search of Carol. That Howie should suppose it would be new to us now, three and a half years later, was a part of his general air of being behind the times. Still, it was better than having to play poker with him or watch him attempt to do card tricks.

  Fay seemed to feel the same way, for she said, "All right, Howie," and cleared the coffee table so he could lay out the cards.

  Howie's reading was as low-quality as the meal Fay had given us. He fumbled cards, kept repeating himself, and had to look up everything in the book three times over. As a tarot reader, Howie was strictly a textbook engineer.

  I don't remember much about the details of the reading except for two cards. Howie turned up the Knight of Wands, upright, for card number seven, which is the card that shows the Significator's position or attitude in the circumstances.

  "That means departure, flight, change of circumstances," he told us, keeping his finger on the place in the book. "It can also mean—unh—alienation."

  "Well, I was thinking of looking for another apartment," Fay said, laughing. Despite her laughter, I felt she was a little disturbed. "But since the rent's paid ahead, I don't think even Mrs. Schumucker could call it flight."

  Howie turned up two more nondescript cards. Then he came to card ten, the last of the reading, the card that would show the final result, the culmination, "what will come". It was the Ace of Wands, reversed.

  "Hmm," said Howie. "That means fall, decadence, ruin, perdition. Also, a certain clouded joy. But it's not a good card.

  "I'm sorry, Fay. I wouldn't have wanted to read for you if I hadn't thought it would come out better." He gathered up the cards and put them back in their box. His dark, heavy face sagged with contrition. He looked like a bloodhound in a fit of remorse.

  "Oh, that's all right," Fay said. She drew a long breath. " 'A certain clouded joy'—why, what's wrong with that? That's about all one can expect in this life—or in any life."

  She shivered. "I'm going to turn up the heat," she said. "It's cold in here."

  We talked for a while longer. Howie kept saying how sorry he was he'd turned up a bad card for Fay. Finally, she said, "Shut up, Howie," in a flat, imperative voice, and he obeyed, though with the expression of somebody who has swallowed something he didn't intend to. Then it was time for us to be going home.

  During our good-byes, Howard stood with his arm around Fay's waist. I don't think she liked the caress very much; she started to push the ruffled cuffs of her sleeves away from her wrists in a gesture of nervous rejection, and then stopped herself.

  The cab driver wanted to see our Id discs before he would accept us as fares.

  Carol was silent in the cab, but when we got home, she said, "Dick, I think Howie is beating her."

  "What?" I was really surprised. "Howie's beating Fay?"

  "Yes, I think so. Did you notice the bruises on her wrists when she came back from vomiting? Big black spots on both wrists, as if he'd grabbed her and thrown her around."

  "I don't believe it," I said. "Fay's not that kind of a person. There's no reason why she'd put up with it."

  Carol shrugged. She took off her dress—we were in the bedroom—and hung it neatly on a hanger. "How else would she get bruises like that? And she didn't want us to see them. That's why she wore that long-sleeved dress. But being sick upset her so she forgot to keep the cuffs pulled down."

  "There must be some other explanation," I said feebly. (There was, and we were soon to learn its nature.) "Do you think he's making out with her?"

  "I suppose so." Carol sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her hair. "But I don't understand why he doesn't move in with her. It's so much safer, living with a man."

  "I don't think she likes him very well," I said in a burst of insight. "If they're lovers, there's some nonsexual reason for it."

  Carol put the brush down. She looked so pretty that I couldn't resist giving her a kiss. Her mouth was perfectly passive under mine; if I tried to have sex with her, it would be exactly the same way. I wished she'd hurry up and improve.

  "I'm sorry, Dick," she said after a moment.

  "Oh, that's O.K.," I answered. "You won't always be like this."

  "No. I won't."

  When I got home next night, Carol was on the telephone. "All right," she was saying, "we'll be over. About seven. Fine." She hung up.

  "It was Fay," she told me, turning from the telephone. "She wants us to have dinner with her again tonight. Howard has to work late, and she's lonesome. She's upset. I told her we would."

  "Oh, Christ. O.K., Fay's done a lot for us. I'm glad to go. But I wish it weren't raining again tonight."

  When we got out of the cab, we saw that the windows of Fay's apartment were dark. We exchanged glances. Carol hurried up the steps and began ringing the doorbell. There was no answer. She tried the door. It was unlocked.

  Before we cou
ld decide what to do, Mrs. Schumucker appeared. She was wearing a blue-checked apron, and her thin bluish hair was rolled up on pink rollers.

  "She was called out of town," she said, coughing and wiping her eyes. "Unexpectedly. Anyhow, that's what she told me. She said she left you a note, but she forgot to tell me where she put it. Do you want me to come in and help you look for it?"

  "No, thank you," Carol answered. She opened the door and turned on the light. I followed her. Mrs. Schumucker was left in the hall.

  The note was easy enough to find. It was propped up against the clock on top of the bookcase. "Carol and Dick," the envelope was addressed. The flap was stuck down firmly all around. Fay knew Mrs. Schumucker's tendencies.

  "Open it," Carol said.

  I did so and held the note so we could both read it. This is what we read:

  Dear Carol and Dick:

  I'm sorry to stand you up like this. I suppose I ought to have called you, but the matter wasn't one I wanted to discuss over the phone. What has happened is that my longing for Otherworld has grown too strong to resist. Blood will tell. Otherworld is in my blood. I have gone below.

  This isn't a sudden decision. For several months now I have been fighting my own feelings. I started up with Howard not so much because I like him—I find him just passable—as because I thought a love affair in the Bright World might help to distract me. But a longing for Otherworld isn't dealt with so easily.

  It's been really acute all this week. I saw you looking at the bruises on my wrists, Carol. They came from my tying my wrists and my ankles together with clothesline to keep myself from starting on the descent to Otherworld. I found that if I pulled the cord tight enough to hurt, the pain would take my mind off Underearth for a while.

  I called you tonight because I knew that if I spent an evening alone I wouldn't be able to resist my wishes any more. But after I called you, I began to think, Why not? Why shouldn't I go?

  So I am going, and I think Otherworld will be quieter because I am there. I've been there before, you know. I know from former experience that the inhabitants will accept me as a sort of queen.