From the flat summits floated scarlet banners bearing an unreadable device. A clustered group of these pennons before the castle seemed to be moving, and by stretching his neck almost to the snapping point Hugh could see that they were being carried by horsemen who were coming slowly down the road. Ahead of them came the trumpeters, who were now entering the square, sounding their atonal tocsin.
Now the trumpeters passed abreast of him, and the crowd made a lane to let them through. Next came the bearers of the standards, two by two, holding their horses’ heads high. A group of richly dressed but ruffianly retainers followed them. The whole affair reminded Hugh of a racketeer’s funeral in Chicago’s prohibition days. Finally came the sedan chair which bore the royal couple—and Dr. Hugh Tracy at last lost hold of his sanity. For beside the aloof, hated Yero-Jeremy in the palanquin was Evelyn Tracy.
When Hugh came back to his senses he was shouting unintelligible epithets, and several husky townsmen were holding his arms. “Easy, Bud,” one of them hissed into his ear. “Haven’t you ever seen him before?”
Hugh forced himself back to a semblance of calmness, and had sense enough to say nothing of Evelyn. “Who—what is he?” he gasped. The other looked at him tensely for a moment, then, reassured, let go of him.
“That’s Yero. He’s called many names, but the most common is The Enemy. Better get used to seeing him. You can’t help hating him, but it’ll do you no good to fly off the handle like that.”
“You mean everybody hates him?”
The townsman frowned. “Why certainly. He’s The Enemy.”
“Then why don’t you throw him out?”
“Well—”
The other burgher, who had said nothing thus far, broke in: “Presenuk prajolik solda, soldama mera per ladsua hrutkai; per stanisch felemetskie droschnovar.”
“Exactly,” said the other man. “You okay now, Bud?”
“Ulp,” Hugh said. “Yes, I’m all right.”
The crowd, still roaring its ambiguous cheer, was following the procession out the other end of the square, and shortly Hugh found himself standing almost alone. A sign over a nearby shop caught his eye: Dr. ffoni, Licensed Magician. Here was what he had been looking for. As he ran quickly across Ihe square toward the rickety building he thought he caught a glimpse out of the tail of his eyes of a top hat moving along in the departing crowd, but he dismissed it. That could wait.
The shop was dark inside, and at first he thought it empty. But in answer to repeated shouts a scrambling began in the back room, and a nondescript little man entered, struggling into a long dark gown several sizes too large for him.
“Sorry,” he puffed, trying to regain his right hand, which he had lost down the wrong sleeve, “out watching the parade. May I serve you, young sir?”
“Yes. I’m a transportee, and I’d like to get back where I belong.”
“So would we all, so would we all, indeed,” said the magician, nodding vigorously. “Junior!”
“Yes, paw.” A gawky adolescent peered out of the back room.
“Customer.”
“Ah, paw. I don” wanna go in t’ any trance. I’m dragging a rag-bag to a rat-race t’night an’ I wanna be groovy. You know prognostics allus knock me flatter’n a mashed-potato san’witch.”
“You’ll do as you’re told, or I’ll not allow you to use the broomstick. You see, young sir,” the magician addressed Hugh, “familiar spirits are at somewhat of a premium around here, there being so many in this town in my profession; but since my wife was a Sybil, my son serves me adequately in commissions of this nature.”
He turned back to the boy, who was now sitting on a stool behind the counter, and produced a pink lollipop from the folds of his robe. The boy allowed it to be placed in his mouth docilely enough, and closed his eyes. Hugh watched, not knowing whether to laugh or to swear. If this idiotic procedure produced results, he was sure he’d never be able to contemplate Planck’s Constant seriously again.
“Now then, while we’re waiting,” the sorcerer continued, “you should understand the situation. All living has two sides, the IN-side and the OUT-side. The OUT-side is where the roots of significant mistakes are embedded; the IN-side where they flower. Since most men have their backs turned to the OUT-side all their lives, few mistakes can be rectified. But if a man turns, as if on a pivot, so that he faces the other way, he may see and be on the OUT-side,and have the opportunity to uproot his error if he can find the means. Such a fortunate man is a transportee.”
“So, in effect, existence has just been given a half-turn around me, to put me facing outside instead of inside where I belong?”
“A somewhat egotistical way of putting it, but that is the general idea. The magicians of many ages have used this method of disposing of their enemies; for unless the transportee can find his Avatars—the symbols, as it were, of his error—and return them to their proper places, he must remain Outside forever. This last many have done by choice, since none ever dies Outside.”
“I’d just as soon not,” Hugh said with a groan. “What are my Avatars?”
“To turn a capstan there must be a lever, and to pivot a man Outside means that two other living beings must act as the ends of this lever, and exchange places in time. Your Avatars changed places in time, while you stood still in time and space, but were pivoted to face Outside.”
At this point he reached over to the boy and gave an experimental tug on the protruding stick of the lollipop. It slipped out easily; all the pink candy had dissolved. “Ah,” he said. “We are about ready.” He made a few passes with his hands and began to sing:
“Jet propulsion, Dirac hole,
Trochilminthes, Musterole,
Plenum, bolide, Ding an sich,
Shoot the savvy to me, Great White Which!”
The tune was one more commonly associated with Pepsi-Cola. After a moment the boy’s mouth opened, and licking the remains of the lollipop from its corners, he said clearly, “Two hundred. Night prowlers.”
“Is that all?” Hugh said, not much surprised.
“That’s quite enough. Well, maybe not quite enough, but it’s about all I ever get.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Why, simply this: that your Avatars are two hundred years apart from each other; and that they are night-prowlers.”
“Two hundred years! and I have to find them?”
“They are represented by simulacra in Outside. You must identify these simulacra and touch each one; this done, they will exchange again, and you will be rotated Inside. Have you seen any here?”
A light burst in Hugh’s brain. “I saw a man from my own age who looked like a bona-fide night-prowler all right.”
“You see?” The magician spread his hands expressively. “Half the work is over. Simply search for another night-prowler whose costume is two hundred years older—or, of course, younger—than the first. It’s very simple. Now, young sir—” The hands began to wash each other suggestively.
Hugh produced a handful of coins. “That’s no good,” said the little man with a sniff. “I can make that myself. It’s the city’s principal industry. I don’t suppose you have any sugar on you? Or rubber bands? No? Hmm. How about that?”
He prodded Hugh’s vest. “That” was Hugh’s Sigma Chi key, dangling from his watch chain. He had been elected to the honorary society by virtue of a closely reasoned paper on the deficiencies of current stellar evolution hypotheses. With a grin he passed it across the counter. “Thanks,” the thaumaturgist said, “I collect fetishes. Totem fixation, I guess.”
Feeling rather humble, Hugh left the shop and started back toward Bell’s house by the most direct route his memory could provide. Now that he had begun to get his bearings, his stomach was reminding him that he had gone the whole day without food. On the way he saw the known Avatar half-way down a dark alley, contemplating a low doorway sorrowfully; but when he arrived, the top-hatted figure was gone. By the time he entered the house where he had h
ad his first glimpse of Outside, he was decidedly discouraged, but the pleasant smell of food revived him somewhat.
“Good evening,” Bell greeted him, though the ambiguous daylight was as unvaryingly bright as ever. “Find your astrologer?”
“Yes. Now I have to find a night-prowler. You wouldn’t be one, by any chance?”
The man laughed softly. “In a sense, yes, but I’m too old to be the one you want. You’re Avatar-hunting, I take it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, I’m not a simulacrum. I’m a native here, one of the original settlers. Come on and eat, anyhow.” He led the way into the room which Hugh had first seen, and waved him to the table. On it was a platter bearing a complete roast hog’s head with an apple in its mouth and three strips of bacon between its ears, a pudding, a meat pie, a spitted duckling, three wooden trenchers—boards used as plates—and three razor-sharp knives. Obviously forks were not in style Outside.
“Has Yero’s administration caused a potato shortage?” Hugh asked curiously.
“Potato? No. You transportees have odd ideas; you mean potatoes to eat? Don’t you know they’re a relative of the deadly nightshade?”
Hugh shrugged and fell to. There was bread anyhow. During the course of the meal the two pumped him about his experiences during the day, and he answered with increasing caution. They seemed to be up to something. He especially disliked young Martin, whose knowing smile when Hugh described his belief that Yero’s queen was in actuality his own wife irritated him. As the dinner ended Bell came to the point.
“You’ve heard Yero spoken of as The Enemy? Well, his rule here is intermittent. He just pops up every fall season and takes the place of the Old One, who is the only rightful king, and a good one. It’s during Yero’s ascendancy that all the transportees show up—all the people who make mistakes during that period, if the mistakes are of a certain kind, get pivoted around here to correct them. It gets pretty nuisancy.
“You can see what I mean. Here you come busting in on us and split our good pine door and eat one third of our food. Not that we begrudge you the food; you’re welcome to it; but it is a bother to have all these strangers around. In addition it decreases the future population in a way I haven’t time to describe now. Everybody hates Yero, even the transportees. It’s our idea to assassinate him before he gets to come back another time; then the Old One can really do us some good and the town can come back to normal. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”
“I thought no one ever died here.”
“Nobody ever does, naturally, but accidents or violence can distribute an individual to the point of helplessness. Since you seem to hate Yero like the rest of us, we thought you might like to throw in with us.”
The hospitality of the two did not permit him to refuse immediately, but more and more he was sure he did not want to be involved in any project of theirs. Bell’s picture of what Outside’s substitute for death was like revolted him; and in addition, the thought occurred to him that it would be dangerous to take any positive steps while he was still ignorant of the error that had brought him here.
“I’d like to sleep on that,” he said cautiously. “Do you mind if I defer judgment for the night? I haven’t had any sleep for thirty-six hours, and I’ll just pass out, if I don’t get some.”
“All right,” Bell said. “You think it over. With The Enemy out of the way it might be easier to find your Avatars, too, you know. Nothing ever works right while he’s in power.”
When Hugh awoke his brain did not function properly for quite a few seconds. The bed had had fleas in it, and the changeless brilliancy of the “daylight” had kept him awake a long time despite his exhaustion. The sight of the black-clad figure seated on the nearby stool did not register at first.
“Good mornin”,” he said muzzily. Then, “You!”
“Me,” the man in the top hat replied ungrammatically. “I had to wait for the two Princes to get out of the house before I could see you. I’ve been looking for you.”
“You’ve been looking for me,” Hugh repeated angrily, sitting up in bed. He noticed with only faint surprise that the wall of the room was plainly visible through the visitant’s shirt bosom. “Well, you’ll have to solidify a minute if you’re going to do me any good. I’m supposed to touch you.”
“Not yet. When you do, this image will vanish, and I’ve got a few things to talk to you about before that happens. I got bounced back two hundred years in time past on account of a fool mistake you made, and I’m as anxious to see you straightened out as you are yourself.” He hiccuped convulsively. “Luckily I’m a book collector with a special bent towards Cruikshank. I had sense enough to consult Dr. Lee while I was behind the times, and found out where you were. Do you know?”
“Where am I? Why, I’m Outside.”
“Use your noggin. How much does ‘Outside’ mean to you, anyhow?”
“Very little,” Hugh agreed. “Well, the only other place I know where people go that make mistakes is—awk! Now, wait a minute! Don’t tell me—”
The figure nodded solemnly. “Now you’ve got it. You should have guessed that when the Princes told you their boss was called the Old One. You’ve already had clue after clue that they’re forbidden to conceal from you; that no one dies here; that all the world’s magicians come here eventually; that making money—remember the saying about the root of all evil?—is the town’s principal industry; and so on.”
“Well, well.” Hugh scratched his head. “Hugh Tracy, Ph.D., F.R.A.S., spending a season in Hell just like Rimbaud or some other crazy poet. The fall season at that. How Evelyn would love this. But it’s not quite as I would have pictured it.”
“Why should it have been?”
Hugh could think of no answer. “Who’s Yero, then? He’s called The Enemy.”
“He’s their enemy, sure enough. I don’t know exactly who he is, but he’s someone in authority, and his job is to see the Purgatory candidates get a chance to straighten things out for themselves. Naturally the Fallen buck him as much as possible; and part of the trick is to disguise the place somewhat, to keep its nature hidden from the transportees—the potential damned—and lure them into doing something that will keep them here for good. That bed you’re in, for instance, is probably a pool of flaming brimstone or something of the sort.”
Hugh bounded out hastily.
“Yero establishes himself in the fortress of Dis, which is what that pile of chromium junk is, up on the hill, after you get behind the disguise. Each time he comes, he makes a tour through the town, showing himself to each newcomer in a form which will mean the most to that person. The important thing is that few people take kindly to being corrected in the fundamental kinds of mistakes that bring them here, so that nine times out of ten Yero’s appearance to you makes you hate him.”
“Hmm,” Hugh said. “I begin to catch on, around the edges, as it were. To me he looked like a man I’d started out to murder a few days ago.”
“You’re on the track. Examine your motives, use your head, son, and don’t let the Princes trick you into anything.” The pellucid shape steadied and grew real and solid by degrees; the man in the top hat rose and walked toward the bed. “Above all—don’t hate Yero.”
His outstretched hand touched Hugh’s sleeve, and he vanished on the instant with a sharp hiccup.
There was no one in the house, and nothing to eat but a halfconsumed and repellent-looking pudding left over from the “night” before, which he finished for lack of anything else rather than out of any attraction the suety object had as a breakfast dish. Then he left the house in search of the other Avatar.
The light was bright and cheerful as always, but he felt chilly all the same. Discovering where he was had destroyed all of his amusement in the town’s crazy construction, and taken the warmth out of his bones. He eyed the passers-by uneasily, wondering as each one approached him whether he was seeing someone like himself, a soul in eternal torment, or an emissary of the Fa
llen whose real form was ambiguous.
For the rest of the morning he roamed the streets in search of a likely-looking figure, but finally he had to admit that his wanderings were fruitless. He sat down on a doorstep to think it out.
His Avatars were the “symbols of his error”; they were night-prowlers, obviously, because he had been one himself, gun in hand. The error itself was something to do with Jeremy Wright and Evelyn—not the impending murder, because it had not been committed, but some other error. The man in the top hat had been chosen, perhaps, because he had conceived of Wright as a cavalier, a suave home-breaker, or something of the sort; dinner clothes made a pointed symbol of such a notion. Of what else, specifically,had he suspected Jeremy? Tom-catting!
He groaned and dropped his head in his hands, remembering the cat he had seen in conjunction with his first sight of the man in dinner clothes. How was he to find one ragged alley-cat in a town where there were doubtless hundreds? Cats did not wear period costumes. He couldn’t go around touching cats until something happened!
He heard a sniffing sound and a thin mournful whine at his side. He looked down.
“Go ’way,” he said. “I want a cat, not a mongrel pooch.”
The puppy, recoiling at the unfriendly tone, dropped its tail and began to sidle away from him, and gloomily he watched it go. Brown dog?—Brown cat?—Brown dog! An inspiration!
“Here, Fleet,” he essayed. The puppy burst into a frenzy of tail-wagging and came back, with that peculiar angled trot only dogs out of all the four-footed beasts seem to affect. Hugh patted its head, and it whined and licked his hand.
“There, there,” he said. “You’re lost, I know. So am I. If your name is Fleet, we’ll both be home shortly. It darn well better be Fleet.”
Hugh considered the animal speculatively. It certainly seemed to respond to the name; but then, it was only a puppy, and might just as easily respond to any friendly noise. Grimly he sat and waited. In about an hour the dog began to get restless, and Hugh carted it across the street to a shop and bought it some meat, leaving in payment a letter from a colleague which the shopkeeper seemed to think was full of cantrips, charms of some kind. Then he resumed his vigil.
The Dark Side Page 5
