"Muh time's comin’ soon,” Nathan announced, “but I know muh worth."
"Ten pounds of rice."
"Yup."
"You're worth much more than that,” Joshua said, watching the setting sun through the glass neck of the Lone Star bottle.
"Chem'cals,” the old pilot sighed, steadfastly refusing to deal with Joshua's religious views. “Chem'cals an’ time an’ e-lectric'ty. What we do."
"Well, you done all right,” his nephew said. “Considering what the rest of the world's like these days."
"An’ what's it like?"
Joshua set the empty aside. Nathan knew that he wanted another, but since Joshua had bought it for his uncle, he would not drink another beer unless asked. Nathan shook his head. Man should know enough to say what he wants. He understood the lights he was seeing in the sunset, heard the clocks ticking inside him, and what they meant. He handed Joshua his beer, still almost full. “Here, drink dis. I can't finish it."
"Thanks.” Joshua took a grateful sip and then looked around. An unexpectedly cool breeze ruffled the swamp grasses. Above the Gulf vees of black-winged birds spread under the clouds. The distant lights of Thibodeaux and Doremus were coming on.
"Funny thing about Doremus Parish,” Joshua said. “Hurricanes never seem to come here, not in a long time anyway. This house was built when, 1930?"
"1927, sumpin’ like dat."
"Mmmm.” Joshua was right. Katrina, Rita, all of them seemed to sheer off and miss Doremus Parish. “I think you're good luck, Uncle."
"Me?"
"You. I think you keep the hurricanes away."
"An’ I t'ink you crazy,” Nathan chuckled.
"I didn't know you had a cat."
"I allus have a cat.” Nathan looked up. Murphy was sitting by the foot of the steps, regarding Joshua with guarded calm. “Tha's new. He only comes out ta me."
"Well, cats will do what they will.” For a religious man, Joshua had an uncommon amount of sense.
Murphy sat quietly in his own world, taking in the dusk. Joshua made a tentative move to scratch the old tom, but hesitated. “Bet’ not. He don’ like that, even when I do't."
Joshua nodded, but stretched his hand down anyway and scratched Murphy between the shoulders. Instead of running away, Murphy regarded Joshua with an air of what Nathan could only think of as tolerant respect, then wriggled down into a sphinx-like pose, paws pointing forward. He put his head down, closed his eyes, and went to sleep. After a moment, Joshua pulled back his hand and looked at Nathan. “My, my."
"He never done that, even f’ me."
"Maybe he's sick."
"He not sick.” It's the coming change, he thought. The glow in the air, the birds, everything swept away like a bad movie ad, but lighter, subtler. Now you see it, now you don't.
"You coming to dinner Sunday?"
If there was a Sunday, Nathan thought, but he said, “'spect so."
"We're having Sophie's chicken."
"Mmmm. I likes dat, me."
"I know.” Joshua rose, patted Nathan on the shoulder, then wiped his hands on the legs of his pants. “You take care, Nathan. Call me if you need anything."
* * * *
After Joshua had gone, Nathan watched the darkness crowd in around his porch. The night birds began to call as the earth cooled down, but Nathan stayed warm. Murphy awoke, stretched, sat down by his chair. With a fatalistic shrug, Nathan reached down and petted the cat.
"Well, dis is new."
"I know. I'm sorry about that."
Nathan froze, but only for a moment. He was entering a tunnel of miracles, a dark ride, where nothing would be totally unexpected. “You talk."
"Yes,” Murphy replied, pointlessly. He swept a paw across his whiskers. It was obvious to Nathan that Murphy was a cat of few words and that he did not talk because he didn't like to. And yet....
"Why you choose ta talk now?"
"You know."
"Because th’ end is coming?"
"Something is,” the cat replied, as if a talking cat were the most natural thing in the world. Here, in the dusky red twilight of the Gulf, Nathan could almost believe that it was. Something was out there, beyond the swamp grass of the Mississippi, beyond Joshua's little Godly house and the city of drowned pleasures. Something was coming.
"D'ya know what it is?"
"A change,” Murphy replied. “A bridge between worlds."
"Like two boats bumpin’ in da fog,” Nathan said softly. “You kin step frum one ta d'other as dey touch."
Murphy blinked, saying nothing.
"An da boats? Is one gon’ sink?"
"I don't know, Nathan."
"Fer a magic cat, ya doan know much."
* * * *
Like A Christmas Carol, Nathan thought. First Joshua, then the cat ... and there the analogy crumbled. Nathan Roullon was eighty-eight years old. There was not a great deal of time left in his life, and little or no good that he could do for others, whether he changed or not. And could he affect what was coming? Even if he knew?"
He sat still. It was after midnight. Murphy lay asleep in his lap. The night had gone quiet. And then Nathan heard it, the soft crunch of gravel. Someone was coming down the lane.
"Company,” muttered Murphy, opening an eye.
"Shhh. Keep quiet, you."
The faint pool of light from his porch spilled out to the edge of the road. When the walking man reached the edge of the light, he stopped. Only his legs were visible, and those barely.
"Who's dere?” Nathan asked, keeping his voice steady. He could sense the tension in Murphy and touched his back reassuringly.
"My name is Horii Sado,” the man replied, his words with only the slightest trace of an accent. “May I come up?"
Nathan said nothing, but Horii Sado stepped forward. He was young, dressed in a shabby khaki uniform that hung loose on his spare frame. Nathan's heart almost stopped. He had seen this man every night in his dreams since that moment over the Solomons when his bullets had killed him: the young gunner from the torpedo plane. “Tha's impossible,” Nathan stuttered.
"So is a talking cat,” Murphy said softly.
Nathan was suddenly angry. “Why are you here?” he demanded. “An’ why'd you come like dat?"
Sado smiled. “I wanted you to recognize me. I wanted you to know I'm serious."
"Serious? You come ta kill me?"
Sado laughed. “Why bother? You are weeks from death, perhaps days. There's a different time coming. An end time. A change in ownership. Seeing you was an afterthought."
Murphy squeezed his eyes shut and growled. Nathan patted his back, there, there, and Murphy grew quiet. Nathan regarded the young man who stood looking up from the driveway, using Murphy's interruption to collect his thoughts. If the boy was indeed Satan or the Prince of Darkness or the Anti-Christ, why come to him? Was it some sort of test, or a torment?
"Why you come bother me, ghost? I killed dat boy fair ‘n square in combat, in da war. I sorry for it, but das da way war is. I kill him or he kill me. An’ I never had no truck wit’ da Devil, hear?"
Sado smiled again. “It is always good to meet a man who knows his mind,” he said softly.
"So you kin know who gets ta step to da other boat?"
"Something like that."
"Mmmmp. So da worl’ gone end den?"
"Not necessarily. Everything ends sooner or later. When is up to my discretion."
"So you gets to say if it end on Sat'day or Sunday?"
"I have more leeway than that."
Murphy stood up and stretched with the insolence only a cat could show before Satan. He licked a paw, then turned his face toward Sado. “This is that sort of test then? The big one, for the end of the world?"
"He talks.” Nathan felt the need to explain. This was his house, his life still, and he would not let go of his reasons.
"They all do. He made them that way."
"He?"
Sado pointed upward and mouthed the
word “God."
"You afraid o’ him too?"
Sado sneered. “He threw me out of Heaven. Look where I landed. This shithole. And I still can't get away from Him. He put me to work, here, among you lesser life forms...."
Nathan snorted, resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross. He had left religion long ago during the war, when he had made a separate peace with God, and he was not about to backslide now.
"Go ahead, cross yourself."
"No."
"If you don't believe in Him, how can you believe in me?"
"Who says I don’ b'leave in God?” Nathan snapped. “An you standin’ right here. But if you lookin’ fer a righteous man, I t'ink you better head on down da road."
"I'm not looking for a righteous man,” Sado said. “I'm looking for an interesting one."
* * * *
Nathan felt the G forces as he banked sharply to avoid the puffs of flak coming up. American flak, from American ships, but it played no favorites. It would kill without prejudice, tear off wings and engine, strip away his life as easily as crushing a grape. Leveling out, he pushed Number 66 into a long shallow turn over Guadalcanal, moving away from the anti-aircraft guns, looking for targets.
He stared at his hands—young hands, with no age marks. Where the Hell am I? The answer came in his headset.
"Number 66, come in. This is Satan, over."
You cruel sonofabitch. “What you doin’ ta me?"
"Everybody has something he would like to do over. I guess I'm just curious."
"I ain't flown a plane in forty years...."
"This is 1942. You fly all the time. Have fun."
Nathan grunted in angry pain, but he looked around, scanning the sky. And he remembered. They would be north, over The Slot, on the way in. His flight would catch them near Kolombangara. He swung the little Wildcat around north-north-west and increased speed.
It came back to him, but then it was never gone, he realized. I'm Nathan Roullon, eighty-eight years old, but I'm also Nathan Roullon, Lieutenant Junior Grade, United States Navy Reserve, twenty years old. Just three weeks in Wildcats and here I am in combat. He tried to clear his mind of the contradictions and simply fly the plane.
He put on speed, casting his attention around the compass for Zekes or Oscars, nasty little surprises from the Japanese base on Buna, but there were none, so he busied himself with making sure all his guns were primed, checking oxygen, fuel, pitch, and mixture. He tried to remember, with his eighty-eight-year-old memories, just where they'd come from. Before it came to him, they did.
He saw them low, wing after wing of Kates, three-man torpedo planes. Kates had only one gun, in the rear, but attacking from the front was no cinch, at least when they were in formation. If his firing pass crossed into the range of those massed guns they'd shoot him apart. Nathan had his own way of dealing with them: from behind and below.
He cut into a long wide spiral to circle around the formation—and almost died. He felt bullets cutting into the armored turtleback behind his head and pushed over into a sharp dive. As he pulled around he saw the plane following him, a Pete, a nasty little float-plane fighter with two guns forward and one aft. It wasn't particularly fast or sturdy, but it could turn on a dime, and it was on his tail. Still, the Wildcat had a few tricks left.
He throttled back and sideslipped, catching the Pete off guard. The Japanese plane slid past, and now Nathan was behind it. A two-second burst from his six .50 caliber machine guns, and the Pete was falling like a burning flower. What did I do next?
He saw a chutai of Kates, low and moving fast above the cool, green waters of The Slot, and knew that this was where he was supposed to be. There were six of the long-bodied torpedo planes headed toward the American ships lying off of Lunga Point, ships loaded with soldiers and Marines.
As he dropped low and curved wide to move in behind them, he saw the problem. To attack Kates from the rear you needed to be below them so their gunners couldn't track you. But these were flying at less than a hundred meters. It would be a tight squeeze to stay below them and not wind up in the drink.
Like most American fighter pilots, Nathan Roullon was enough of a hot dog to have been reprimanded for stunting, flying under bridges, and doing victory rolls. He felt the responsive little Wildcat through his feet, his hands, the seat of his pants, and was certain that, if the situation required, he could skip it across the surface of the sea like a flat stone. As he dropped toward the rolling swells, he worried that it might come to that.
They saw him coming in, and the gunners at the edges of the formation tried to pin him in a crossfire. The bullets screamed by within a foot of his tailplane, but he was in too close and too low. He popped his nose up and fired a two-second burst at the tail-end Charlie, which folded into a blazing rose and dropped into the sea with a tremendous explosion.
Dodging the spray of rubble, he jinked right, tilted left, and brought down a second Kate, but the four remaining aircraft continued on in formation. Nathan knew that they'd hang stubbornly together for fire support, even as he picked them off. American pilots would have split up at the first attack, but Japanese tactical discipline was strong.
He picked off two more, then came up on the tail of a Kate with two yellow bands around the fuselage. Time seemed to slow down. That's him, he thought. The kid. Horii, the one that will shoot me down.
"Get your mind in the game."
"Shut up, you devil, you."
Suddenly the yellow-banded Kate banked and rose in a sloppy climb to lead him away from the last plane. A Kate could climb as fast as a Wildcat, but not while lugging a torpedo, and the pilot seemed reluctant to jettison his deadly load. Pulling back on the stick, Nathan and Number 66 rose and closed for a shot, but the Kate slipped sideways and skidded off to the north. The pilot was good—obviously some sort of honcho.
As the Kate swung back around on course for Lunga Point, the gunner poured a stream of 7.7mm slugs at Nathan, speckling his left wing, but Wildcats were tough. Nathan dropped down into a swift dive, pulled up, and fired. His slugs walked from the Kate's wing root through the long glass greenhouse, killing the pilot and the bombardier. Again, time seemed to slow.
The Kate was flying on, its dead pilot's hand on the stick, flames licking at the fuselage. The doomed plane's gunner sat straight up, ready to fire, watching Number 66 slide in closer. The two men looked at each other.
"Kill him."
Shut up.
"It's your duty, Cajun. He's the enemy. Kill him."
"I'm the one flyin’ dis plane,” he said aloud, watching the gunner bend low over his machine gun. Then a stream of tracers leapt out, crashing into his engine, shattering the cockpit glass, clipping the watch off his wrist. Smoke and glycol erupted from the cowling.
Nathan fired, but not at the gunner. His slugs tore the engine off the Kate, staggering it, sending it down. As Nathan's engine quit, he screamed to the boy, “Bail out! Get out of there.” Then he popped his canopy, rolled Number 66 over, and dropped into the thick tropical air.
As Number 66 dropped spinning toward the sea, Nathan floated down, angling toward it, as if he were trying to reclaim his plane.
The Devil's voice crackled in his disconnected headset. “You were supposed to kill him."
"The pilot was dead. The plane was going down."
"You let him shoot you down."
Nathan ripped off the headset and flung it away. A few seconds later he splashed down, not ten yards from the Wildcat, which was floating upside down on the gentle rollers. Freeing himself from his chute, he stroked to the plane and pulled the life raft from its compartment. Miraculously, it had not been punctured.
He saw the other chute floating in the water and made for it. The gunner was alive, trying to free himself, and when he saw Nathan he pulled out a slim Nambu pistol, but it slipped from his hand and sank. Nathan had his .45 out, and when the little Jap tried to puncture his raft with a knife, he clubbed him over the head with his pistol.
<
br /> Nathan Roullon stood on the dark sand beach and watched the young Japanese gunner. He was unconscious, but breathing softly. Joshua stepped out of the jungle. “You didn't kill him. Why?"
Nathan looked at the impossible image, knowing full well who it was. “Why'd you come like that?"
"You would prefer something more lyrical? A talking fish perhaps?"
"I prefer we end dis.” Nathan snapped. “You had your fun. You had your show. Let me go."
Joshua-Satan smiled. “You may be interesting, Nathan, but you're not a lot of fun."
"Everybody's got an opinion.” Nathan said, then turned and walked away.
* * * *
Nathan came to in his chair with a weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, he saw Murphy looking into his face, his forepaws planted firmly on Nathan's chest. “Mmmmph. Murphy?"
Murphy yowped and jumped down to the floorboards. He looked at Nathan with inscrutable blandness. “You still talk?"
* * * *
"Yowp."
"So, it was all a dream, den?"
"Yearrrow."
"Quiet, you. Go eat.” Murphy threw his tail in the air and walked into the house. Nathan grabbed the armrests of his rocker and pulled himself up straight. He looked around. In the darkness lightning bugs had come out and were spread across the marsh to the east, riding on air as thick as honey.
There was no sign of anyone else. Leeway, the Devil had said. Nathan snorted, recent memories of devils and talking cats beginning to fade. The war was a long time ago. He had the Medal of Honor, and a pension, and friends. He had the Pilot's Association and his visits to Japan, the fishing trips with Horii and his family. His dreams were untroubled, and his life worth much more than ten pounds of rice. The end of the world would not be his worry.
—For Jefferson De Blanc and James Swett
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FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION MARKET PLACE
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BOOKS-MAGAZINES
S-F FANZINES (back to 1930), pulps, books. 96 page Catalog. $5.00. Collections purchased. Robert Madle, 4406 Bestor Dr., Rockville, MD 20853.
FSF, March 2008 Page 18
