Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales

by Ray Bradbury

  She didn’t watch the dead, ancient bone-chess cities slide under, or the old canals filled with emptiness and dreams. Past dry rivers and dry lakes they flew, like a shadow of the moon, like a torch burning.

  She watched only the sky.

  The husband spoke.

  She watched the sky.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?”

  He exhaled. “You might pay attention.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “I never thought you were a nature lover, but you’re certainly interested in the sky tonight,” he said.

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “I was figuring,” said the husband slowly. “I thought I’d call Hulle tonight. I’d like to talk to him about us spending some time, oh, only a week or so, in the Blue Mountains. It’s just an idea—”

  “The Blue Mountains!” She held to the canopy rim with one hand, turning swiftly toward him.

  “Oh, it’s just a suggestion.”

  “When do you want to go?” she asked, trembling.

  “I thought we might leave tomorrow morning. You know, an early start and all that,” he said very casually.

  “But we never go this early in the year!”

  “Just this once, I thought—” He smiled. “Do us good to get away. Some peace and quiet. You know. You haven’t anything else planned? We’ll go, won’t we?”

  She took a breath, waited, and then replied, “No.”

  “What?” His cry startled the birds. The canopy jerked.

  “No,” she said firmly. “It’s settled. I won’t go.”

  He looked at her. They did not speak after that. She turned away.

  The birds flew on, ten thousand firebrands down the wind.

  In the dawn the sun, through the crystal pillars, melted the fog that supported Ylla as she slept. All night she had hung above the floor, buoyed by the soft carpeting of mist that poured from the walls when she lay down to rest. All night she had slept on this silent river, like a boat upon a soundless tide. Now the fog burned away, the mist level lowered until she was deposited upon the shore of wakening.

  She opened her eyes.

  Her husband stood over her. He looked as if he had stood there for hours, watching. She did not know why, but she could not look him in the face.

  “You’ve been dreaming again!” he said. “You spoke out and kept me awake. I really think you should see a doctor.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “You talked a lot in your sleep!”

  “Did I?” She started up.

  Dawn was cold in the room. A gray light filled her as she lay there.

  “What was your dream?”

  She had to think a moment to remember. “The ship. It came from the sky again, landed, and the tall man stepped out and talked with me, telling me little jokes, laughing, and it was pleasant.”

  Mr. K touched a pillar. Founts of warm water leaped up, steaming; the chill vanished from the room. Mr. K’s face was impassive.

  “And then,” she said, “this man, who said his strange name was Nathaniel York, told me I was beautiful and—and kissed me.”

  “Ha!” cried the husband, turning violently away, his jaw working.

  “It’s only a dream.” She was amused.

  “Keep your silly, feminine dreams to yourself!”

  “You’re acting like a child.” She lapsed back upon the few remaining remnants of chemical mist. After a moment she laughed softly. “I thought of some more of the dream,” she confessed.

  “Well, what is it, what is it?” he shouted.

  “Yll, you’re so bad-tempered.”

  “Tell me!” he demanded. “You can’t keep secrets from me!” His face was dark and rigid as he stood over her.

  “I’ve never seen you this way,” she replied, half shocked, half entertained. “All that happened was this Nathaniel York person told me—well, he told me that he’d take me away into his ship, into the sky with him, and take me back to his planet with him. It’s really quite ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous, is it!” he almost screamed. “You should have heard yourself, fawning on him, talking to him, singing with him, oh gods, all night; you should have heard yourself!”

  “Yll!”

  “When’s he landing? Where’s he coming down with his damned ship?”

  “Yll, lower your voice.”

  “Voice be damned!” He bent stiffly over her. “And in this dream”—he seized her wrist—“didn’t the ship land over in Green Valley, didn’t it? Answer me!”

  “Why, yes—”

  “And it landed this afternoon, didn’t it?” he kept at her.

  “Yes, yes, I think so, yes, but only in a dream!”

  “Well”—he flung her hand away stiffly—“it’s good you’re truthful! I heard every word you said in your sleep. You mentioned the valley and the time.” Breathing hard, he walked between the pillars like a man blinded by a lightning bolt. Slowly his breath returned. She watched him as if he were quite insane. She arose finally and went to him. “Yll,” she whispered.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “No.” He forced a tired smile. “Just childish. Forgive me, darling.” He gave her a rough pat. “Too much work lately. I’m sorry. I think I’ll lie down awhile—”

  “You were so excited.”

  “I’m all right now. Fine.” He exhaled. “Let’s forget it. Say, I heard a joke about Uel yesterday, I meant to tell you. What do you say you fix breakfast, I’ll tell the joke, and let’s not talk about all this.”

  “It was only a dream.”

  “Of course.” He kissed her cheek mechanically. “Only a dream.”

  At noon the sun was high and hot and the hills shimmered in the light.

  “Aren’t you going to town?” asked Ylla.

  “Town?” He raised his brows faintly.

  “This is the day you always go.” She adjusted a flower cage on its pedestal. The flowers stirred, opening their hungry yellow mouths.

  He closed his book. “No. It’s too hot, and it’s late.”

  “Oh.” She finished her task and moved toward the door. “Well, I’ll be back soon.”

  “Wait a minute! Where are you going?”

  She was in the door swiftly. “Over to Pao’s. She invited me!”

  “Today?”

  “I haven’t seen her in a long time. It’s only a little way.”

  “Over in Green Valley, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, just a walk, not far, I thought I’d—” She hurried.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry,” he said, running to fetch her back, looking very concerned about his forgetfulness. “It slipped my mind. I invited Dr. Nlle out this afternoon.”

  “Dr. Nlle!” She edged toward the door.

  He caught her elbow and drew her steadily in. “Yes.”

  “But Pao—”

  “Pao can wait, Ylla. We must entertain Nlle.”

  “Just for a few minutes—”

  “No, Ylla.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “No. Besides, it’s a terribly long walk to Pao’s. All the way over through Green Valley and then past the big canal and down, isn’t it? And it’ll be very, very hot, and Dr. Nlle would be delighted to see you. Well?”

  She did not answer. She wanted to break and run. She wanted to cry out. But she only sat in the chair, turning her fingers over slowly, staring at them expressionlessly, trapped.

  “Ylla?” he murmured. “You will be here, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said after a long time. “I’ll be here.”

  “All afternoon?”

  Her voice was dull. “All afternoon.”

  Late in the day Dr. Nlle had not put in an appearance. Ylla’s husband did not seem overly surprised. When it was quite late he murmured something, went to a closet, and drew forth an evil weapon, a long yellowish tube ending in a bellows and a trigger. He turned, and upon his face was a m
ask, hammered from silver metal, expressionless, the mask that he always wore when he wished to hide his feelings, the mask which curved and hollowed so exquisitely to his thin cheeks and chin and brow. The mask glinted, and he held the evil weapon in his hands, considering it. It hummed constantly, an insect hum. From it hordes of golden bees could be flung out with a high shriek. Golden, horrid bees that stung, poisoned, and fell lifeless, like seeds on the sand.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “What?” He listened to the bellows, to the evil hum. “If Dr. Nlle is late, I’ll be damned if I’ll wait. I’m going out to hunt a bit. I’ll be back. You be sure to stay right here now, won’t you?” The silver mask glimmered.

  “Yes.”

  “And tell Dr. Nlle I’ll return. Just hunting.”

  The triangular door closed. His footsteps faded down the hill.

  She watched him walking through the sunlight until he was gone. Then she resumed her tasks with the magnetic dusts and the new fruits to be plucked from the crystal walls. She worked with energy and dispatch, but on occasion a numbness took hold of her and she caught herself singing that odd and memorable song and looking out beyond the crystal pillars at the sky.

  She held her breath and stood very still, waiting.

  It was coming nearer.

  At any moment it might happen.

  It was like those days when you heard a thunderstorm coming and there was the waiting silence and then the faintest pressure of the atmosphere as the climate blew over the land in shifts and shadows and vapors. And the change pressed at your ears and you were suspended in the waiting time of the coming storm. You began to tremble. The sky was stained and colored; the clouds were thickened; the mountains took on an iron taint. The caged flowers blew with faint sighs of warning. You felt your hair stir softly. Somewhere in the house the voice-clock sang, “Time, time, time, time . . .” ever so gently, no more than water tapping on velvet.

  And then the storm. The electric illumination, the engulfments of dark wash and sounding black fell down, shutting in, forever.

  That’s how it was now. A storm gathered, yet the sky was clear. Lightning was expected, yet there was no cloud.

  Ylla moved through the breathless summer house. Lightning would strike from the sky any instant; there would be a thunderclap, a boll of smoke, a silence, footsteps on the path, a rap on the crystalline door, and her running to answer . . .

  Crazy Ylla! she scoffed. Why think these wild things with your idle mind?

  And then it happened.

  There was a warmth as of a great fire passing in the air. A whirling, rushing sound. A gleam in the sky, of metal.

  Ylla cried out.

  Running through the pillars, she flung wide a door. She faced the hills. But by this time there was nothing.

  She was about to race down the hill when she stopped herself. She was supposed to stay here, go nowhere. The doctor was coming to visit, and her husband would be angry if she ran off.

  She waited in the door, breathing rapidly, her hand out.

  She strained to see over toward Green Valley, but saw nothing.

  Silly woman. She went inside. You and your imagination, she thought. That was nothing but a bird, a leaf, the wind, or a fish in the canal. Sit down. Rest.

  She sat down.

  A shot sounded.

  Very clearly, sharply, the sound of the evil insect weapon.

  Her body jerked with it.

  It came from a long way off. One shot. The swift humming distant bees. One shot. And then a second shot, precise and cold, and far away.

  Her body winced again and for some reason she started up, screaming, and screaming, and never wanting to stop screaming. She ran violently through the house and once more threw wide the door.

  The echoes were dying away, away.

  Gone.

  She waited in the yard, her face pale, for five minutes.

  Finally, with slow steps, her head down, she wandered about the pillared rooms, laying her hand to things, her lips quivering, until finally she sat alone in the darkening wine room, waiting. She began to wipe an amber glass with the hem of her scarf.

  And then, from far off, the sound of footsteps crunching on the thin, small rocks.

  She rose up to stand in the center of the quiet room. The glass fell from her fingers, smashing to bits.

  The footsteps hesitated outside the door.

  Should she speak? Should she cry out, “Come in, oh, come in”?

  She went forward a few paces.

  The footsteps walked up the ramp. A hand twisted the door latch.

  She smiled at the door.

  The door opened. She stopped smiling.

  It was her husband. His silver mask glowed dully.

  He entered the room and looked at her for only a moment. Then he snapped the weapon bellows open, cracked out two dead bees, heard them spat on the floor as they fell, stepped on them, and placed the empty bellows gun in the corner of the room as Ylla bent down and tried, over and over, with no success, to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass. “What were you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said with his back turned. He removed the mask.

  “But the gun—I heard you fire it. Twice.”

  “Just hunting. Once in a while you like to hunt. Did Dr. Nlle arrive?”

  “No.”

  “Wait a minute.” He snapped his fingers disgustedly. “Why, I remember now. He was supposed to visit us tomorrow afternoon. How stupid of me.”

  They sat down to eat. She looked at her food and did not move her hands. “What’s wrong?” he asked, not looking up from dipping his meat in the bubbling lava.

  “I don’t know. I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know; I’m just not.”

  The wind was rising across the sky; the sun was going down. The room was small and suddenly cold.

  “I’ve been trying to remember,” she said in the silent room, across from her cold, erect, golden-eyed husband.

  “Remember what?” He sipped his wine.

  “That song. That fine and beautiful song.” She closed her eyes and hummed, but it was not the song. “I’ve forgotten it. And, somehow, I don’t want to forget it. It’s something I want always to remember.” She moved her hands as if the rhythm might help her to remember all of it. Then she lay back in her chair. “I can’t remember.” She began to cry.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, but I can’t help it. I’m sad and I don’t know why, I cry and I don’t know why, but I’m crying.”

  Her head was in her hands; her shoulders moved again and again.

  “You’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said.

  She did not look up at him; she looked only at the empty desert and the very bright stars coming out now on the black sky, and far away there was a sound of wind rising and canal waters stirring cold in the long canals. She shut her eyes, trembling.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be all right tomorrow.”

  BANSHEE

  IT WAS ONE OF THOSE NIGHTS, crossing Ireland, motoring through the sleeping towns from Dublin, where you came upon mist and encountered fog that blew away in rain to become a blowing silence. All the country was still and cold and waiting. It was a night for strange encounters at empty crossroads with great filaments of ghost spiderweb and no spider in a hundred miles. Gates creaked far across meadows, where windows rattled with brittle moonlight.

  It was, as they said, banshee weather. I sensed, I knew this as my taxi hummed through a final gate and I arrived at Courtown House, so far from Dublin that if that city died in the night, no one would know.

  I paid my driver and watched the taxi turn to go back to the living city, leaving me alone with twenty pages of final screenplay in my pocket, and my film director employer waiting inside. I stood in the midnight silence, breathing in Ireland and breathing out the damp coal mines in my soul.
/>   Then, I knocked.

  The door flew wide almost instantly. John Hampton was there, shoving a glass of sherry into my hand and hauling me in.

  “Good God, kid, you got me curious. Get that coat off. Give me the script. Finished it, eh? So you say. You got me curious. Glad you called from Dublin. The house is empty. Clara’s in Paris with the kids. We’ll have a good read, knock the hell out of your scenes, drink a bottle, be in bed by two and—what’s that?”

  The door still stood open. John took a step, tilted his head, closed his eyes, listened.

  The wind rustled beyond in the meadows. It made a sound in the clouds like someone turning back the covers of a vast bed.

  I listened.

  There was the softest moan and sob from somewhere off in the dark fields.

  Eyes still shut, John whispered, “You know what that is, kid?”

  “What?”

  “Tell you later. Jump.”

  With the door slammed, he turned about and, the grand lord of the empty manor, strode ahead of me in his hacking coat, drill slacks, polished half-boots, his hair, as always, windblown from swimming upstream or down with strange women in unfamiliar beds.

  Planting himself on the library hearth, he gave me one of those beacon flashes of laugh, the teeth that beckoned like a lighthouse beam swift and gone, as he traded me a second sherry for the screenplay, which he had to seize from my hand.

  “Let’s see what my genius, my left ventricle, my right arm, has birthed. Sit. Drink. Watch.”

  He stood astride the hearthstones, warming his backside, leafing my manuscript pages, conscious of me drinking my sherry much too fast, shutting my eyes each time he let a page drop and flutter to the carpet. When he finished he let the last page sail, lit a small cigarillo and puffed it, staring at the ceiling, making me wait.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said at last, exhaling. “It’s good. Damn you to hell, kid. It’s good!”

  My entire skeleton collapsed within me. I had not expected such a midriff blow of praise.

  “It needs a little cutting, of course!”

  My skeleton reassembled itself.

  “Of course,” I said.

  He bent to gather the pages like a great loping chimpanzee and turned. I felt he wanted to hurl them into the fire. He watched the flames and gripped the pages.