by Laird Barron
Right away, I saw the water flowing across the road ahead, maybe a hundred yards distant. I knew enough to be aware of the danger of fording a flooded road, especially when the water covering it was moving; if I hadn’t, there were warnings against doing so every ten minutes on the radio. Had I taken this road at the beginning of my journey, I would have reversed immediately. This far into it, however, with my options for reaching my wife dwindled almost to zero, I let the truck roll forward. The water didn’t look that deep. Its blackness was no a trick of the light; nor was the water full of dirt. It was more as if it had been dyed black. The color didn’t concern me: I assumed it must be due to some kind of microorganism that had been fomented by the rain. I eased the truck into it, unable to recall whether the road dipped here or not. The water eddied around the tires, rising up them as I continued. What was the minimum depth at which moving water could sweep your vehicle off the road? Was it different for a truck? I was approximately half-way across the stream, and the water seemed to have halted its climb at the bottom of my tires’ hubcaps. I glanced to my left, where the water was spreading out in a broad pool over the small meadow there. If I were to be carried off the road, I was reasonably sure I’d be able to four-wheel my way out of it, and if not, I could abandon the truck and wade for it. It would be messy, and slow, and ultimately, costly, and it would mean having to return to the house, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.
And then I was on the other side of the water, pressing the gas pedal to make up for lost time. For the next mile or so, the road ran straight, its edges lipped by more black water pooling in the fields and forest alongside it. Where the remnant of a stone wall crossed the woods on either side, the road swung sharply to the right, before almost doubling-back to the left. I didn’t remember this, but after all, it would have been fifteen, sixteen years since I’d last driven here, and anyway, that wasn’t important. Standing amongst the trees on my right was the tree I’d glimpsed behind my house four years before.
Everything went far away, and it was as if I were seeing the tree at the end of long, dark tunnel. My head swam. Without thinking, I stepped on the brake, so that only the front right wheel left the road. The truck slowed to a crawl. Black spots dancing in front of my eyes, I brought the truck to a complete stop, shifted into park, and opened my door. The engine running, I stepped out of the truck. The ground here was slightly raised. I started to walk toward the tree. There was no water for me to trek through; though I wouldn’t have cared—I doubt I would have noticed. All of my attention was focused on the tree, which I was certain was going to vanish any second, now.
It did not. My fingers brushed its bark, which was rough, fibrous, like that of the cedar in my front yard. It was warm, the way wood is at the end of a long day in the hot sun. Its surface shone with a dull, yellowed light, as if it was reflecting a brightness invisible to me. The faint odor of citrus, of oranges on the turn, hung around it. Overhead, leaves green as jade gathered in a heavy crown. I reached up my hand to one of them, only to snatch it back with a hiss. The edges of the leaves were serrated, and those teeth as sharp as fishhooks, a fact to which the beads of blood welling from my fingertips testified. Wincing, I shook my hand, and saw the other trees.
There were five of them, mixed in with the oaks and maples. Each was slightly different from its fellows, the trunk thicker here, the leaves higher there, but the bronze bark, the sea-green leaves, marked them as the same species. Almost before I was aware of it, I was half-running toward them, my uninjured hand held out to them. Their bark was full of the same heat as the first one I’d touched; I didn’t need to touch their leaves to notice their sharpness. From tree to tree, I moved steadily deeper into the woods, farther away from the truck, whose engine sounded more distant than the hundred or so yards I’d walked. Beyond the last tree, there was a small clearing of reddish ground, across which, a grove of the trees stood. Somewhere deep within that grove, something was visible through the shining trunks. I was not afraid: at the sight of that first tree, my emotions had leapt over fear to wonder. As I took in each successive revelation, so did that wonder push toward joy. By the time I crossed the clearing, I was grinning.
Amongst the trees, the smell of citrus hung heavier. The air was warm, the post-storm chill chased from it by the heat radiating from the trees. The low rumble of the truck’s engine had been occluded by another sound, a rushing like wind through the leaves, which was punctuated by an irregular boom. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the white objects in whose direction I was heading. There were several of them, standing straight and pale; they appeared to be another kind of tree, a grove within the grove. Their trunks were smooth, creamy; as with the trees surrounding them, these swept up to crowns I wasn’t close enough to distinguish, but which appeared joined to one another. Only when I arrived at the edge of the space in which these white trees had been planted did I realize that they were not, in fact, trees, but columns. Perhaps a dozen, fifteen of them had been set in a wide ring, which had been roofed by the small dome they supported—which had partially collapsed on my side. The columns, the roof, seemed to be marble or a stone like it. The ground around the temple—that was immediately how I thought of it—was bare, only a couple of stray leaves marking it. That I could see, there was no writing, no marking, on the structure’s exterior.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. The scent of oranges, the sound of rushing, surrounded me. My nerves hummed. Anything might happen here. Conscious of its damaged roof, I approached the temple cautiously. A heap of broken stone lay on the floor under the gap. Passing between a pair of columns, I saw that the rubble partially obscured the mosaic that took up the floor. Executed in the flat style of a Byzantine icon, the image showed the head and shoulders of a woman whose brown, ringletted hair spread down over the top of her peach robe. Most of her face was hidden by the fallen stone, which had also cracked and loosened dozens of the thumbnailed-sized tiles, but one wide, brown eye was visible. I knelt beside it, placing my palm on the iris. The tiles were cool, the seams among them imperceptible. I picked up one of the roof fragments. Though the size of a quarter, it was far heavier. I weighed it in my hand, listening to the rushing noise, which sounded not so much louder as clearer, here, enough that I could identify it as the surf, throwing itself up the beach and receding, the occasional boom a collapsing wave. Between the columns opposite me, I could see out to where the ground lifted in a gradual swell. From the other side of it, the ocean sounded. I stood, fresh tears pouring from my eyes, and as I did, saw a shape moving over the rise.
It was an animal, crossing from right to left. It was enormous, its front shoulder a rounded mountain that dipped to a long back, which rose again at the hips. It paused, and swung its head in my direction, bringing a pair of widely-set horns into relief. It raised its snout, and with the whuff of a bellows inflating, inhaled. It did so a second time, and I realized it was sniffing the air. It dropped its head, and turned toward me. As it climbed the hill, I saw that it was a bull—but such a bull as might have stepped straight from an ancient myth. It wasn’t only that it was far larger than any bull I had ever seen by a factor of two or three. Its skin shone the red-gold of the sun sliding toward the horizon; its horns were white as sea-foam. Its features were finely, even delicately formed, to the point that this animal could have served as the example of the species in all its varieties. Were it not for the great iron ring looped through its nostrils, I easily could have believed I was beholding a god who had elected to put on this form for his latest sojourn on earth. As it was, I was half-tempted to drop to my knees at the sight of it standing atop the rise, its presence there like the shout of a full orchestra. It threw its head back and bellowed, a deep, rolling roar that made the leaves on the trees shudder. I took a step backwards. The bull lowered its head, snorted, and pawed the ground. There was no need to wait for its charge; pivoting on my right foot, I sprinted out of the temple the way I’d come.
Fro
m this direction, the edge of the grove seemed to take much longer to reach. Already too close behind me, the bull was a wave of sound, rushing to overtake me. A glance over my shoulder showed it swerving from side to side as it sought gaps among the trees wide enough to allow its horns. Had its path to me been clear, the bull would have run me down in no time. As it was, I wasn’t wild about my chances. My days of running high-school track were a quarter-century gone. If I could reach my truck, the odds would improve in my favor. But between the thunder of the bull’s hooves on the ground, and the pounding of the blood in my ears, I had yet to hear the rumble of the engine—and that was assuming it hadn’t stalled. The bull roared, and adrenaline fired my legs, carrying me out of the grove into the forest proper. To my left, my right, the scattering of the shining trees that had drawn me deeper into the woods flashed past. The ground here was slicker, slippery with storm-soaked leaves, treacherous with fallen branches, a couple of toppled trees. I hurdled a trunk thick with moss, slid under another whose collapse had been arrested by one of its companions. The first tree I had seen was ahead. Not too far beyond it, my truck appeared to be running. With a pair of titanic cracks, the bull struck and shattered the trees I had dodged over and under. I cleared the treeline. The truck was forty yards away, thirty-five. The bull’s hooves pounded the earth. The truck was thirty yards away, twenty-five. The bull snorted like a steam engine. The truck was twenty yards away, fifteen. I could hear the engine’s roll. The ground drummed under my feet; the bull was nearly on me. The truck was ten yards away, five. I could see the dome light on because I hadn’t closed my door completely. The bull was burning behind me.
I cleared the hood, threw myself to the left, hauled open the driver’s side door, and flung myself into the cab. Before I had pulled the door shut, the bull struck the right side of the flatbed with a shuddering boom. The truck swung hard to the left, the door snapping open and jerking me half out of the cab. Only a little of its momentum lost, the bull continued past, its hooves sparking on the road as it charged into the marsh on the other side, spraying water and mud as it went. Though slowed by the change in terrain, the bull did not stop, but wheeled to the left, commencing an arc that would return it to me in no time. Grateful to be on dry ground, I closed the door, shifted into reverse, and stepped on the gas. For a heart-stopping moment, the wheels spun, then they caught and the truck lurched backwards, flinging me forward with such force I smacked my head on the steering wheel. I stomped the brake in time to avoid plunging into the marsh, shifted into drive, and dragged the wheel to the left. The tires shrieked as the truck lurched around in the direction I’d come. I straightened the wheel and pressed the gas to the floor. To my right, the bull had adjusted its course and was on path to intercept me. Never the greatest when it came to quick starts, the truck gathered speed. The bull was churning up gouts of water and weeds as it went, dulling its hide with mud. I held the gas all the way down. The bull stumbled—my heart jumped—and caught itself. Just beyond where the bull was on course to hit me, the road turned sharply to the right, almost doubling-back on itself. If I took that curve too fast, the truck would flip, and I wouldn’t have to worry about unearthly bulls. If I didn’t keep the accelerator to the floor, though, the question of the curve would remain theoretical. The bull was practically galloping through the marsh. Even seated in the cab, I found it gigantic. The truck hurtled over the road. Fast enough—I was just about going fast enough. The bull’s head, its great horns, loomed in the passenger’s side window. An eye the size of a saucer regarded me with an emotion I couldn’t identify.
For a second time, the bull hit the truck on the right side of the flatbed. There was a boom, the scream of tearing metal, the brass shout of the huge beast. The truck fishtailed left; braking, I overcompensated to the right and sent the rear end fishtailing that way. As the scene in the rearview mirror whipped back and forth, I glimpsed the bull plunging through the trees, shaking its head. It didn’t appear to be turning as quickly as it had before, but I was too busy trying to bring my vehicle under control to do any more than note the difference. I succeeded in gaining command of the truck as the road bent into its acute angle, and while there was a second I felt the left-hand tires threatening to leave the asphalt, the truck remained upright. Fully expecting to witness the bull charging across the marsh after me, I looked to the right, to see it standing on the forest side of the road, watching me as I sped away. When I came to the black water still flowing across the road, I did not slow down.
Although I had no desire to return home, which seemed agonizingly close to where the bull had burst forth, I could not think of another route to Prin’s parents, so home I drove. Once I’d parked the truck, I intended to sprint to the back of the house, where I’d use the basement door to let myself inside. I wasn’t sure whether it would be better to shelter from the bull—which I was certain was making its way toward me—in the basement, or if I should choose the first floor, from which I could dash to the truck, if need be. However, when I stepped down from the cab, muscles tensing for the run to the house, something on the flatbed caught my eye. A quick survey showed the bull was not, as yet, near, so I hurried around the back of the truck. From just behind the passenger’s door to the very end of the flatbed, the right side of my truck was crumpled and creased, the metal dented in half a dozen places, the liner cracked and pushed part of the way out. Between the rear wheel and the tailgate, a deep gouge ended in a jagged hole the width of my hand. Lodged inside that hole, jutting into the flatbed, was the object that had drawn my notice, a point of white horn a foot long, its tip undulled, its base rough from having been snapped off. Leaning over into the flatbed, I worked to free the horn. Except for a groove that had been cut into it by a metal shard, its surface was smooth, cool. It came loose without too much effort on my part, and was surprisingly light in my hand. Holding the piece of horn, I felt the panic that had spurred me home relax its grip—but I walked to the house quickly.
Inside, the house was dim, the power not yet returned. I lit one of the candles I’d left on the kitchen table, and used it to light my way upstairs to the second floor and the undersized room that served as my home office. There, I slid out the lower of my desk’s drawers, in whose depths I stored those things I planned to find a more permanent home for, later. I placed the fragment of horn in there, along with the oddly-heavy piece of rock I’d picked up in the temple, and which at some point thereafter I’d dropped into the front pocket of my jeans. I closed the drawer, shut the office door behind me, and descended the stairs. I didn’t enter that room again for weeks, didn’t say anything about what was in my desk drawer or where it had come from to Prin or her parents, when they pulled into the driveway the next day, or to the twins, when they returned home for Christmas vacation. The damage to the truck, I blamed on an accident I claimed to have suffered while trying to reach Prin’s parents’ during the height of the hurricane. I had driven, I said, into a flooded section of road, only to find the water deeper and stronger than I’d anticipated. The truck had been swept off the road into a stand of trees, and it was only through some miracle that I had been able to engage the four-wheel-drive and escape. My story was helped by the large bruise that purpled my forehead where I’d smacked it on the steering wheel; though my father-in-law was visibly unsatisfied with my explanation. The insurance company wasn’t any happier about my claim, which they first denied, then, when I proposed legal action, refused to cover fully, citing the role of my reckless behavior in causing the damage. I took what I could get, and the next year, traded in the truck for a small station wagon.
After arriving with her parents, Prin remained with me, as, over the next couple of weeks, she decided to remain in our marriage. I ceased contact with my ex, deleting the account from which I’d written to her. About ten days after the storm, I drove the road along which I’d sighted the shining tree; it ran straight and short, intersecting another after a few hundred yards. The twins returned from their study abroa
d for their senior year of high school and plans to leave, again, for college. I did not leave my job; nor, when the next storm slid over us, did I do anything other than check that the windows were shut.
With each and every storm that followed, I have, when possible, done exactly the same thing: ensure that the windows are closed, and mount the stairs to the second floor and my office. There, I sit at my desk, which faces the window that looks over the backyard. I watch the rain bead the window, the wind toss the trees. I squint at the lightning’s flare, listen to the thunder rattle the window. I try not to picture the face I saw on the temple floor, the single eye gazing up impassively. I try not to think about that other place, the grove in which I walked, the ocean whose waves I heard, lying on the other side of a veil as fine as spiderweb, as wide as the world. I try not to indulge the emotion that roils through me, that has continued to answer the summons of every storm. At some point, I will have retrieved the length of horn, the piece of stone, from the drawer and set them on the desk. My hands on either side of them, I gaze out the window, and remind myself how much I love my family.
For Fiona
W.H. Pugmire
* * *
A QUEST OF DREAM
Wilum Hopfrog Pugmire has been writing Lovecraftian weird fiction since the early 1970s. His identity with H. P. Lovecraft is now an obsessive lifestyle, and he is devoted to writing book after book in homage of HPL. That multitude of books includes The Tangled Muse (Centipede Press), Uncommon Places (Hippocampus Press), Bohemians of Sequa Valley (Arcane Wisdom Press) and Some Unknown Gulf of Night (Arcane Wisdom Press). His next book will be a collaborative collection with David Barker, Spectres of Lovecraftian Horror (Dark Renaissance Books 2015). WHP dreams in Seattle.
