What kind of a man?
A lonely man.
It came upon her like a chill. She rose from the pillowed chair, lightly. "I think," she said, "I'll go on to my room."
"Are your windows good and locked?"
"Yes."
"You'd better make sure. All he'd have to do is climb up the drainpipe." Maud's expression was peculiar. Was she really saying, "This is only to comfort you, dear. Of the three of us, it's unlikely he'd pick on you."
"I'll make sure." Julia walked to the hallway. "Good night."
"Try to get some sleep." Louise smiled. "And don't think about him, hear? We're perfectly safe. He couldn't possibly get in, even if he tried. Besides," she said, "I'll be awake."
(He stopped and leaned against a pole and looked up at the deaf and swollen sky. It was a movement of dark shapes, a hurrying, a running.
He closed his eyes.
"The moon is the shepherd, The clouds are his sheep . . ."
He tried to hold the words, tried very hard, but they scattered and were gone.
He pushed away from the pole, turned, and walked back to the gravel bed.
The hunger grew: with every step it grew. He thought that it had died, that he had killed it at last and now he could rest, but it had not died. It sat inside him, inside his mind, gnawing, calling, howling to be released. Stronger than ever before.
"The moon is the shepherd . . ."
A cold wind raced across the surrounding fields of wild grass, turning the land into a heaving dark-green ocean. It sighed up through the branches of cherry trees and rattled the thick leaves. Sometimes a cherry would break loose, tumble in the gale, fall and split, filling the night with its fragrance. The air was iron and loam and growth.
He walked and tried to pull these things into his lungs, the silence and coolness of them.
But someone was screaming, deep inside him. Someone was talking.
"What are you going to do--"
He balled his fingers into fists.
"Get away from me! Get away!"
"Don't--"
The scream faded.
The girl's face remained. Her lips and her smooth white skin and her eyes, her eyes . . .
He shook the vision away.
The hunger continued to grow. It wrapped his body in sheets of living fire. It got inside his mind and bubbled in hot acids, filling and filling him.
He stumbled, fell, plunged his hands deep into the gravel, withdrew fists full of the grit and sharp stones and squeezed them until blood trailed down his wrists.
He groaned, softly.
Ahead, the light glowed and pulsed and whispered, Here, Here, Here, Here, Here.
He dropped the stones and opened his mouth to the wind and walked on . . .)
Julia closed the door and slipped the lock noiselessly. She could no longer hear the drone of voices: it was quiet, still, but for the sighing breeze.
What kind of a man . . .
She did not move, waiting for her heart to stop throbbing. But it would not stop.
She went to the bed and sat down. Her eyes travelled to the window, held there.
"He's out there somewhere . . ."
Julia felt her hands move along her dress. It was an old dress, once purple, now gray with faded gray flowers. The cloth was tissue-thin. Her fingers touched it and moved upward to her throat. Then undid the top button.
For some reason, her body trembled. The chill had turned to heat, tiny needles of heat, puncturing her all over.
She threw the dress over a chair and removed the underclothing. Then she walked to the bureau and took from the top drawer a flannel nightdress, and turned.
What she saw in the tall mirror caused her to stop and make a small sound.
Julia Landon stared back at her from the polished glass.
Julia Landon, thirty-eight, neither young nor old, attractive nor unattractive, a woman so plain she was almost invisible. All angles and sharpnesses, and flesh that would once have been called "milky" but was now only white, pale white. A little too tall. A little too thin. And faded.
Only the eyes had softness. Only the eyes burned with life and youth and--.
Julia moved away from the mirror. She snapped off the light. She touched the window shade, pulled it slightly, guided it soundlessly upward.
Then she unfastened the window latch.
Night came into the room and filled it. Outside, giant clouds roved across the moon, obscuring it, revealing it, obscuring it again.
It was cold. Soon there would be rain.
Julia looked out beyond the yard, in the direction of the depot, dark and silent now, and the tracks and the jungles beyond the tracks where lost people lived.
"I wonder if he can see me."
She thought of the man who had brought terror and excitement to the town. She thought of him openly, for the first time, trying to imagine his features.
He was probably miles away.
Or, perhaps he was nearby. Behind the tree, there, or under the hedge .
"I'm afraid of you, Robert Oakes," she whispered to the night. "You're insane, and a killer. You would frighten the wits out of me."
The fresh smell swept into Julia's mind. She wished she were surrounded by it, in it, just for a little while.
Just for a few minutes.
A walk. A short walk in the evening.
She felt the urge strengthening.
"You're dirty, young man. And heartless--ask Mick, if you don't believe me. You want to love so badly you must kill for it--but nevertheless, you're heartless. Understand? And you're not terribly bright, either, they say. Have you read Shakespeare's Sonnets? Herrick? How about Shelley, then? There, you see! I'd detest you on sight. Just look at your fingernails!"
She said these things silently, but as she said them she moved toward her clothes.
She paused, went to the closet.
The green dress. It was warmer.
A warm dress and a short walk--that will clear my head. Then I'll come back and sleep.
It's perfectly safe.
She started for the door, stopped, returned to the window. Maud and Louise would still be up, talking.
She slid one leg over the sill; then the other leg.
Softly she dropped to the frosted lawn.
The gate did not creak.
She walked into the darkness.
Better! So much better. Good clean air that you can breathe!
The town was a silence. A few lights gleamed in distant houses, up ahead; behind, there was only blackness. And the wind.
In the heavy green frock, which was still too light to keep out the cold--though she felt no cold; only the needled heat--she walked away from the house and toward the depot.
It was a small structure, unchanged by passing years, like the Landon home and most of the homes in Burlington. There were tracks on either side of it.
Now it was deserted. Perhaps Mr. Gaffey was inside, making insect sounds on the wireless. Perhaps he was not.
Julia stepped over the first track, and stood, wondering what had happened and why she was here. Vaguely she understood something. Something about the yellow thread that had made her late and forced her to return home through the gathering dusk. And this dress--had she chosen it because it was warmer than the others . . . or because it was prettier?
Beyond this point there was wilderness, for miles. Marshes and fields overgrown with weeds and thick foliage. The hobo jungles: some tents, dead campfires, empty tins of canned meat.
She stepped over the second rail, and began to follow the gravel bed. Heat consumed her. She could not keep her hands still.
In a dim way, she realized--with a tiny part of her--why she had come out tonight.
She was looking for someone.
The words formed in her mind, unwilled: "Robert Oakes, listen, listen to me. You're not the only one who is lonely. But you can't steal what we're lonely for, you can't take it by force. Don't you know that? Haven't you learned that yet
?"
I'll talk to him, she thought, and he'll go along with me and give himself up . . .
No.
That isn't why you're out tonight. You don't care whether he gives himself up or not. You. . . only want him to know that you understand. Isn't that it?
You couldn't have any other reason.
It isn't possible that you're seeking out a lunatic for any other reason.
Certainly you don't want him to touch you.
Assuredly you don't want him to put his arms around you and kiss you, because no man has ever done that--assuredly, assuredly.
It isn't you he wants. It isn't love. He wouldn't be taking Julia Landon ...
"But what if he doesn't!" The words spilled out in a small choked cry. "What if he sees me and runs away! Or I don't find him. Others have been looking. What makes me think I'll--"
Now the air swelled with signs of life: frogs and birds and locusts, moving; the wind, running across the trees and reeds and foliage at immense speed, whining, sighing.
Everywhere there was this loudness, and a dark like none Julia had ever known. The moon was gone entirely. Shadowless, the surrounding fields were great pools of liquid black, stretching infinitely, without horizon.
Fear came up in her chest, clutching.
She tried to scream.
She stood paralyzed, moveless, a pale terror dying into her throat and into her heart.
Then, from far away, indistinctly, there came a sound. A sound like footsteps on gravel.
Julia listened, and tried to pierce the darkness. The sounds grew louder. And louder. Someone was on the tracks. Coming closer.
She waited. Years passed, slowly. Her breath turned into a ball of expanding ice in her lungs.
Now she could see, just a bit.
It was a man. A black man-form. Perhaps--the thought increased her fear--a hobo. It mustn't be one of the hobos.
No. It was a young man. Mick! Mick, come to tell her, "Well, we got the bastard!" and to ask, narrowly, "What the devil you doing out here, Julia?" Was it?
She saw the sweater. The ball of ice in her lungs began to melt, a little. A sweater. And shoes that seemed almost white.
Not a hobo. Not Mick. Not anyone she knew.
She waited an instant longer. Then, at once, she knew without question who the young man was.
And she knew that he had seen her.
The fear went away. She moved to the center of the tracks.
"I've been looking for you," she said, soundlessly. "Every night I've thought of you. I have." She walked toward the man. "Don't be afraid, Mr. Oakes. Please don't be afraid. I'm not."
The young man stopped. He seemed to freeze, like an animal, prepared for flight.
He did not move, for several seconds.
Then he began to walk toward Julia, lightly, hesitantly, rubbing his hands along his trousers.
When Julia was close enough to see his eyes, she relaxed, and smiled.
Perhaps, she thought, feeling the first drops of rain upon her face, perhaps if I don't scream he'll let me live.
That would be nice.
* * *
Introduction to BLACK COUNTRY
(by Ray Russell)
* * *
The irony seared my mind like acid, and inwardly I winced as I helped carry Charles Beaumont's coffin that morning early in 1967. Suddenly I had realized, as I and my fellow pallbearers approached the open grave, that my introduction to Beaumont, years before, had involved another cemetery, another funeral: the burial of Spoof Collins in Beaumont's novella, "Black Country." The fictive funeral and the all-too-real one merged in my thoughts, temporarily becoming the same. Even now, I have a little trouble keeping them apart. That's why I find it difficult to be objective about the story.
But I'll try . . .
Words are not music, but I know of no other way to define "Black Country" than to say it is musical. I don't mean merely that the subject matter is musicians and their music. I mean that the writing itself has cadence, rhythm, a beat, a sound. It seems to have been "composed" rather than written, and composed at white heat, without interruption, from first word to last, in a fever of creativity.
The vibrancy, this musicality was the first thing that impressed me when I began to read the story in typescript in 1954, Playboy's first year. As I read on, I found other things to admire--such as the author's command of character, idiom, structure and suspense. I was also swept along by the passion and energy of the prose--but these two qualities are not rare in a young, talented writer. What is rare in a wordsmith only a couple of dozen years old is a firm grasp of technique, and this sizable piece displayed a control of craft and form usually found only in older, more experienced professionals. I read it all the way through at one sitting, put it down stunned and breathless, and immediately recommended it for purchase.
The story required no editing. It went to the printer unscathed by my pencil. At press time, a column space emergency necessitated the cutting of two short words, but even this was dictated by purely mechanical, not literary, needs. Everything about the story was right--even the title, with its strong, symbolic simplicity, echoing a song title (of Beaumont's own invention) and representing not only the dark "country" of Death but also the black race of Spoof Collins and most of the other characters.
Today, it might be easy to forget that the love between white Sonny Holmes and black Rose-Ann was still a "daring" theme in the early Fifties when this story was written--"miscegenation," no less!--requiring courage on the part of Beaumont as writer and Playboy as the story's first medium of publication. Many popular magazines of that time, wary of offending the bigots among their readers, probably would have suppressed that aspect of the story, diminishing its total impact.
"Black Country," the first of many Beaumont writings Playboy was to accept, appeared in our September 1954 issue. In the decades since that first appearance, my opinion of the story has not changed. It remains a fresh, vital work; powerful; a masterpiece among American short stories. "Though not a horror story in any of the usual senses," I later wrote, in the year of Beaumont's death, "it tells of a special kind of demonic possession, thoroughly contemporary and compellingly believable; and its infectious, finger-popping tempo propels the tale irresistibly toward a most unsuspected and macabre finale."
I wouldn't change a word of that description. To me, "Black Country" is the brightest and best of Beaumont's achievements.
* * *
BLACK COUNTRY
* * *
Spoof Collins blew his brains out, all right--right on out through the top of his head. But I don't mean with a gun. I mean with a horn. Every night: slow and easy, eight to one. And that's how he died. Climbing, with that horn, climbing up high. For what? "Hey, man, Spoof--listen, you picked the tree, now come on down!" But he couldn't come down, he didn't know how. He just kept climbing, higher and higher. And then he fell. Or jumped. Anyhow, that's the way he died.
The bullet didn't kill anything. I'm talking about the one that tore up the top of his mouth. It didn't kill anything that wasn't dead already. Spoof just put in an extra note, that's all.
We planted him out about four miles from town--home is where you drop: residential district, all wood construction. Rain? You know it. Bible type: sky like a month-old bedsheet, wind like a stepped-on cat, cold and dark, those Forty Days, those Forty Nights! But nice and quiet most of the time. Like Spoof: nice and quiet, with a lot underneath that you didn't like to think about.
We planted him and watched and put what was his down into the ground with him. His horn, battered, dented, nicked--right there in his hands, but not just there; I mean in position, so if he wanted to do some more climbing, all right, he could. And his music. We planted that too, because leaving it out would have been like leaving out Spoof's arms or his heart or his guts.
Lux started things off with a chord from his guitar, no particular notes, only a feeling, a sound. A Spoof Collins kind of sound. Jimmy Fritch picked it up with
his stick and they talked a while--Lux got a real piano out of that git-box. Then when Jimmy stopped talking and stood there, waiting, Sonny Holmes stepped up and wiped his mouth and took the melody on his shiny new trumpet. It wasn't Spoof, but it came close; and it was still The Jim jam Man, the way Spoof wrote it back when he used to write things down. Sonny got off with a high-squealing blast, and no eyes came up--we knew, we remembered. The kid always had it collared. He just never talked about it. And listen to him now! He stood there over Spoof's grave, giving it all back to The Ol' Masshuh, giving it back right-- "Broom off, white child, you got four sides!" "I want to learn from you, Mr. Collins. I want to play jazz and you can teach me." "I got things to do, I can't waste no time on a half-hip ped young 'un." "Please, Mr. Collins." "You got to stop that, you got to stop callin' me 'Mr. Collins,' hear?" "Yes sir, yes sir."--He put out real sound, like he didn't remember a thing. Like he wasn't playing for that pile of darkmeat in the ground, not at all; but for the great Spoof Collins, for the man Who Knew and the man Who Did, who gave jazz spats and dressed up the blues, who did things with a trumpet that a trumpet couldn't do, and more; for the man who could blow down the walls or make a chicken cry, without half-trying-- for the mighty Spoof, who'd once walked in music like a boy in river mud, loving it, breathing it, living it.
Then Sonny quit. He wiped his mouth again and stepped back and Mr. "T" took it on his trombone while I beat up the tubs.
Pretty soon we had The Jim jam Man rocking the way it used to rock. A little slow, maybe: it needed Bud Meunier on bass and a few trips on the piano. But it moved.
We went through Take It From Me and Night in the Blues and Big Gig and Only Us Chickens and Forty G's--Sonny's insides came out through the horn on that one, I could tell--and Slice City Stomp--you remember: sharp and clean, like sliding down a razor--and What the Cats Dragged In--the longs, the shorts, all the great Spoof Collins numbers. We wrapped them up and put them down there with him.
Then it got dark.
And it was time for the last one, the greatest one . . . Rose-Ann shivered and cleared her throat; the rest of us looked around, for the first time, at all those rows of split-wood grave markers, shining in the rain, and the trees and the coffin, dark, wet. Out by the fence, a couple of farmers stood watching. Just watching.
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