by Cave, Hugh
Was it possible? Had Margal this time created an illusion so powerful it had bridged the gap and become reality? He looked up—straight into the sorcerer's crimson face, now only five or six feet away. It wore an unholy leer of triumph, and the voice in Sam's head, too, was obscene with triumph.
Burn, white man, burn! No one defies Margal!
Sam straightened again, snarled "Damn you!" and attempted another step forward. Made it and was about to try another when a voice stopped him. It came from the hall doorway and was a real voice this time, not one in his tortured mind.
"Step aside, M'sieu!"
He lurched about. Into the room strode two men in Khaki army uniforms, each with an M-1 rifle at the hip. Sam dived out of their line of fire and the weapons jerked into action, filling the room with chatter.
Against the wall, the legless body of Margal danced weirdly for a few seconds on the rigid arms that held it erect and then, riddled, collapsed to the floor.
The rifles swept to other targets. To the broad-shouldered man, now on his feet again, whom Sam had felled with a fist to the face. To the blond, vacant-faced German and his fellow zombie. Then to the sprawled figure of Dr. Bell, but Sam's yell ripped through the room to stop that.
"No!" he bellowed in Creole. "That one's an American—not one of them!"
The guns were silent. Advancing, the two soldiers walked past Sam with scarcely a glance at him and frowned down at Margal. Into the room after them came a man Sam did not know: a handsome Haitian who hurried over to Dr. Bell, now struggling to rise, and with obvious compassion helped the older man to his feet.
The smoke in the room was thickening. Alive with crackling sounds and streaks of scarlet now, it rose from parts of the old wooden floor to swirl darkly to the ceiling. Sam's pant leg burst into flames again. He knelt to slap the flames out.
"This man is still alive, Dr. Molicoeur," one of the soldiers said, peering down at Margal.
Molicoeur left Dr. Bell and walked over to the sorcerer. Sam followed. The legless body lay in a spreading pool of blood, but the eyes were wide behind a thickening film, and the mouth was moving.
But the voice was not the one Sam had heard in the room of many colors at Legrun. Nor was it the one he had just been hearing in his head, screaming at him to die.
It was that of little Tina, saying defiantly in Creole, "I won't, I won't! I'll run away, you'll see. The very first time you send me for water or firewood I'll just run away because you're a wicked man."
The voice changed. Deepening, it became that of Dr. Bell, speaking English. On hearing it above the sputter and crackle of the flames from the blazing floor, Bell came limping over to stare, astonished, at the twisted lips from which it issued.
"I wish only to learn from you. No, no, I will not do this terrible thing you ask of me. I wish only to learn! I know nothing of your president or your country's politics. You must not force me to do this thing."
Suddenly, the voice caused Sam to stiffen as though an electric current had shot through him. It was his own voice now—distorted, unnatural, snarling, but his nevertheless.
"Listen you. . . I'm sick of this shit. Are you coming to bed or not? Either get into this Goddamned bed or get out of this room!"
Then the sorcerer's mutterings drifted into another tongue, slowly and brokenly now as he became weaker. "Ich bin der Sohn von Adolph Hitler. . ."
"Dr. Bell!" Sam reached for the man at his side. "You speak German. What is he saying?"
"I am the son of Adolph Hitler. . ."
". . . und muss meines Vaters Arbeit weiter ausueben . . ."
"And must continue my father's work . . ."
"Du musst den dummen Wunsch. . ."
"You must abandon your stupid desire for revenge you ignorant black fool . . . it is childish. Help me and I offer you a share of the world . . . the whole world . . ."
Margal's mouth stopped moving. The eyes still stared up at those watching, but saw nothing. One of the soldiers said anxiously, "Dr. Molicoeur, if we don't get out of here . . ."
"What shall we do with these people?" Molicoeur asked, frowning at those on the floor. "Is there time, do you think, to—"
"No, no! It is better to leave them! Who knows what life may be left in them to rise again? Let them burn!"
Molicoeur led the way, holding the arm of his fellow doctor of philosophy. Sam, trailing the two soldiers from the room, had to pick his way through spurts of flame and hold his breath to keep the smoke from filling his lungs.
When he turned in the doorway for a last look back, the bodies on the floor were ablaze in a room swiftly becoming the fiery furnace it had earlier only seemed to be.
"Dr. Bell, good-bye. I'm sorry it had to end this way for you." Sam put out his hand.
With his flight ready for boarding, the man from Vermont had time only to press the hand, then turn to Kay and wish her happiness again. He had not been able to attend the wedding at the Calman yesterday; it had been the fourth and final day of his interrogation by the authorities.
He was perspiring now, and Sam guessed it was only partly because of the heat. Inside the airport, something to do with the climate control apparently wasn't working. Outside, the sun beat fiercely on roofs and runways.
"You've no idea when I shall be seeing you again?" Bell directed the question and his gaze at them both.
Sam shrugged. "A year or so, maybe."
"Can you be happy that long in this strange country?"
"We were before," Kay said, smiling.
"Ah, yes. Well . . . thank you for your help. And good-bye."
Bell's step was heavy as he turned away. The plane taking him to New York would also be carrying the body of his only daughter.
Sam reached for the hand of the woman beside him. They would be staying a few days more at the Calman; then Sam would begin his job, overseeing a farming operation in the Artibonite, only a few miles from the hospital. Except when Mrs. Sam Norman had night duty, they would spend their nights together.
Dr. Bell turned for a final wave, and they waved back. Sam put an arm around his wife.
"Shall we have a drink at the bar here or go back to Victor's for something more interesting, Madame?"
"Let's go back, M'sieu," she said. "Who needs a drink?"
