The Howling Man

by Beaumont, Charles

  The boat, whose tin flag proclaimed its name to be Lucy, sliced the calm lake with its toy prow, and, after many minutes, reached the center.

  The glow was insufficient to make the approaching bank distinct. It lay wrapped in darkness, a darkness that hid even the buildings.

  Austin narrowed his eyes and stared. He blinked. It was the fuzziness of the luminescence, of course, that gave movement to the bank. That made it seem to seethe with unseen life.

  It was only that his position to the shadows kept changing that made them turn into dark and feral shapes; trees, where buildings surely were, dense growth . . .

  It was the milky phosphorescence of the metals that rose like marsh-steam from the nearing water . . .

  He closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the boat.

  There was a scraping. Austin felt the cement guard, sighed, switched off the battery and leapt from the little boat.

  There was no jungle. Only the lime-colored city trees and the smooth lawn.

  The university sat ahead like a string of dropped pearls; blister-shaped, connected by elevated tunnels, twisting, delicate strands of metal and alloy.

  Austin scrambled up the embankment. It must be very late now. Perhaps nearly morning. In a few hours, the others would arrive. And--.

  He halted, every muscle straining.

  He listened,

  There were the drums. But not only the drums, now.

  Other sounds.

  He closed his eyes. The airless night pressed against him. He heard a rustling noise. Like something traveling through dense brush. He heard, far away, tiny sounds, whistlings, chitterings. Like monkeys and birds.

  He tore open his eyes. Only the park, the city.

  He went on. Now his feet were on stone and the park was behind him. He walked through the canyons of the city again, the high buildings, metal and crystal and alloy and stone.

  The rustling noises did not cease, however, They were behind him, growing nearer. Bodies, moving through leaves and tall grass.

  Austin suddenly remembered where he'd heard the sound before. Years ago, when he'd first visited this land. They had taken him on a hunting expedition, deep into the wild country. They were going to bag something--he forgot exactly what. Something strange. Yes; it was a wild pig. They had walked all day, searching, through the high tan grass, and then they had heard the rustling sounds.

  Exactly like the sound he heard now.

  Austin recalled the unbelievable fury of the boar, how it had disemboweled two dogs with a couple of swipes of those razor-sharp fangs. He recalled clearly the angry black snout, curled over yellow teeth.

  He turned and stared into the darkness, The noises grew steadily louder, and were broken by yet another sound. Deep and guttural, like a cough.

  As the sound behind him came closer, he ran, stumbled and fell, pulled himself from the stone, and ran until he had reached a flight of steps.

  The coughing noise was a fast, high-pitched scream now, grunting, snorting, a rush of tiny feet galloping across tamped earth, through dry grass. Austin stared blindly, covered his face with his arms and sank back until the sound was almost upon him.

  His nostrils quivered at the animal smell.

  His breath stopped.

  He waited.

  It was gone. Fading in the distance, the rustling, the coughing, and then there was the silence of the drums again.

  Austin pressed the bones of his wrist into his throbbing skull to quiet the ache.

  The panic drained oft slowly. He rose, climbed the steps and walked through the shadowed courtyard onto the campus.

  It was a vast green plain, smooth and grassy.

  Across from it, in sight, was Austin's home.

  He gathered his reason about him like a shield, and decided against taking the other routes. If he had gotten lost before, it could happen again. Certainly now, with his imagination running wild.

  He must cross the campus.

  Then it would be all right.

  He began treading, timorously at first, listening with every square inch of his body.

  The shamon's voice slithered into his mind. Chanting ". . . you were destroying us against our will, Mr. Austin. Our world, our life. And such is your mind, and the mind of so-called 'civilized' men, that you could not see this was wrong. You have developed a culture and a social structure that pleased you, you were convinced that it was right; therefore, you could not understand the existence of any that differed. You saw us as ignorant savages--most of you did--and you were anxious to 'civilize' us. Not once did it occur to you that we, too, had our culture and our social structure; that we knew right and wrong; that, perhaps, we might look upon you as backward and uncivilized . . ."

  The sound of birds came to Austin; birds calling in high trees, circling impossibly in the night sky.

  ". . . . . we have clung to our 'magic', as you call it, and our 'superstitions' for longer than you have clung to yours. Because--as with your own--they have worked for us. Whether magic can be explained in Roman numerals or not, what is the difference, so long as it works? Mr. Austin, there is not only one path to the Golden City--there are many. Your people are on one path--"

  He heard the chatter of monkeys, some close, some far away, the sound of them swinging on vines, scolding, dropping to mounds of foliage, scrambling up other trees.

  "--my people are on another, There is room in this world for both ways. But your failure to grasp this simple fact has killed many of us and it will kill many more of you. For we have been on our path longer. We are closer to the Golden City . . ." .

  Austin clapped his hands to his ears. But he did not stop walking.

  From the smooth stone streets, from the direction of the physics department, came the insane trumpeting of elephants, their immense bulks crashing against brittle bark, their huge feet crunching fallen limbs and branches . . . .

  The shaman's voice became the voice of Barney Chadfield . . . . . . He spoke again of his theory that if one could only discover the unwritten bases of black magic and apply formulae to them, we would find that they were merely another form of science . . . . . . perhaps less advanced, perhaps more,

  The sounds picked up, and the feelings, and the sensations. Eyes firmly open, Austin thought of Mag and felt needled leaves slap invisibly against his legs; he smelled the rot and the life, the heavy, wild air of the jungle, like animal steam; the odors of fresh blood and wet fur and decaying plants; the short rasping breath of a million different animals--the movement, all around him, the approaches, the retreats, the frenzied unseen . . . .

  Eyes open he felt and smelled and heard all these things; and saw only the city.

  A pain shot through his right arm. He tried to move it: it would not move. He thought of an old man. The old man had a doll. The old man was crushing the doll's arm, and laughing . . . . . . He thought of reflexes and the reaction of reflexes to emotional stimuli.

  He walked, ignoring the pain, not thinking about the arm at all,

  ". . . . . tell them, Mr. Austin. Make them believe. Make them believe. . . Do not kill all these people . . ." . .

  When he passed the Law College, he felt a pain wrench at his leg. He heard another dry-grass rustle. But not behind him: in front. Going forward.

  Going toward his apartment.

  Austin broke into a run, without knowing exactly why.

  There was a pounding, a panting at his heels: vaguely he was aware of this. He knew only that he must get inside, quickly, to the sanity of his home. Jaws snapped, clacked. Austin stumbled on a vine, his fingers pulled at air, he leapt away and heard the sound of something landing where he had just been, something that screamed and hissed.

  He ran on. At the steps, his foot pressed onto something soft. It recoiled madly. He slipped and fell again, and the feel of moist beaded skin whipped about his legs. The thunder was almost directly above. He reached out, clawed loose the thing around his leg and pulled himself forward.

  There was a sw
arming over his hands. He held them in front of his eyes, tried to see the ants that had to be there, slapped the invisible creatures loose.

  The apartment door was only a few feet away now. Austin remembered his pistol, drew it out and fired it into the night until there were no more bullets left.

  He pulled himself into the lobby of the unit.

  The door hissed closed.

  He touched the lock, heard it spring together.

  And then the noises ceased. The drums and the animals, all the wild nightmare things--ceased to be. There was his breathing, and the pain that laced through his arm and leg.

  He waited, trembling, trying to pull breath in.

  Finally he rose and limped to the elevator. He did not even think about the broken machines. He knew it would work.

  It did. The glass doors whirred apart at his floor, and he went into the hall.

  It was soundless.

  He stood by the door, listening to his heart rattle crazily in his chest.

  He opened the door.

  The apartment was calm, silent. The walls glowed around the framed Mirós and Mondrians and Picassos. The furniture sat functionally on the silky white rug, black thin-legged chairs and tables . . .

  Austin started to laugh, carefully checked himself. He knew he probably would not be able to stop.

  He thought strongly about Tcheletchew, and the men who would come to Mbarara in the morning. He thought of the city teeming with life. Of the daylight screaming onto the streets of people, the shops, the churches, the schools. His work. His dream .

  He walked across the rug to the bedroom door.

  It was slightly ajar.

  He pushed it, went inside, closed it softly.

  "Mag," he whispered. "Mag--"

  There was a noise. A low, throaty rumble. Not of anger; of warning.

  Richard Austin came close to the bed, adjusted his eyes to the black light.

  Then he screamed.

  It was the first time he had ever watched a lion feeding.

  * * *

  Introduction to THE NEW PEOPLE

  (by Saul David)

  * * *

  It was when I was re-reading the story that it came back to me. Not the story itself--I remembered that in a vague way as soon as the title was suggested--but Chuck's barely suppressed snicker when I reacted to the name of one of the main characters, Matt Dystal. Dystel, Oscar Dystel, was the name of the then new president of Bantam Books. The businessmen who head publishing companies often don't have editorial backgrounds and they're sometimes suspicious of the artistic airs and graces of editors and the lunatics who actually write the damn books. Publishers would often say, not quite joking, "This would be a good business if it wasn't for editors and writers." And since Dystel had inherited me along with a lot of editors and writers, he looked hard at every lifted eyebrow.

  "Don't you think he should feel honored?" asked Chuck. I said "He may never read it. But if he does, he'll be sure it's an inside joke."

  "Okay--you want to change the name?"

  If I said yes, Chuck would have something funny to tell the guys who met in his cellar to swap ideas. I had my own image to keep up. So I said, "forget it."

  "Tell you what," Chuck said magnamimously, "spell it different."

  That's why it's spelled with an "a" where the other man is spelled with an "e".

  One of the things I remember best is that playfulness. As a tribe, Sci-fi and fantasy writers tend toward solemnity--at least in public. Probably it comes from reading all those deep-dish critical pieces about far-sigh tedness and prophecy. When someone tells you that your stories have deep significance and look forward down the corridors of time, it's hard to deny. Look at Ron Hubbard. But Chuck was not that kind of True Believer. He played with ideas and enjoyed the play. That accounts for the sparkle you find in the grimmest of them,

  In publishing jargon, these stories--all sci-fi, fantasy, etc. were called "category fiction" and, in literary status, sat below the salt. To escape from his caste was not easy for a writer. He had to break an invisible quality barrier--out of the category ghetto and into hard covers and slick magazines; into the company of Roald Dahl and John Cheever and Saki. Chuck used to speculate about that barrier--was it really literary quality?

  The results of his musings are evident in the stories. In most of them there's an effort to add a bit of dimension to the people--very difficult in the kind of story in which the idea, the event, the surprise ending is what makes the sale and the memory. In "The New People," Prentice casts a shadow, he is almost real enough to make the reader wonder if he could have escaped--gotten off the story's rails. Could he have done so? Of course not--but it's a measure of the writer's reach that the question comes up at all. Chuck died tragically young with his reach still far beyond his grasp--a great loss,

  * * *

  THE NEW PEOPLE

  * * *

  If only he had told her right at the beginning that he didn't like the house, everything would have been fine. He could have manufactured some plausible story about bad plumbing or poor construction--something; anything!--and she'd have gone along with him. Not without a fight, maybe: he could remember the way her face had looked when they stopped the car. But he could have talked her out of it. Now, of course, it was too late.

  For what? he wondered, trying not to think of the party and all the noise that it would mean. Too late for what? It's a good house, well built, well kept up, roomy. Except for that blood stain, cheerful. Anyone in his right mind .

  "Dear, aren't you going to shave?"

  He lowered the newspaper gently and said, "Sure." But Ann was looking at him in that hurt, accusing way, and he knew that it was hopeless.

  Hank-what's-wrong, he thought, starting toward the bathroom.

  "Hank," she said.

  He stopped but did not turn. "Uh-huh?"

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," he said.

  "Honey. Please."

  He faced her. The pink chiffon dress clung to her body, which had the firmness of youth; her face was unblemished, the lipstick and powder incredibly perfect; her hair, cut long, was soft on her white shoulders: in seven years Ann hadn't changed.

  Resentfully, Prentice glanced away. And was ashamed. You'd think that in this time I'd get accustomed to it, he thought. She is, Damn it!

  "Tell me," Ann said.

  "Tell you what? Everything is okay," he said,

  She came to him and he could smell the perfume, he could see the tiny freckles that dotted her chest, He wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. Probably it would be very nice.

  "It's about Davey, isn't it?" she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. They were standing only a few feet from their son's room.

  "No," Prentice said; but, it was true--Davey was part of it. For a week now Prentice had ridden on the hope that getting the locomotive repaired would change things. A kid without a train, he'd told himself, is bound to act peculiar. But he'd had the locomotive repaired and brought it home and Davey hadn't even bothered to set up the track,

  "He appreciated it, dear," Ann said. "Didn't he thank you?"

  "Sure, he thanked me."

  "Well?" she said. "Honey, I've told you: Davey is going through a period, that's all. Children do. Really."

  "I know,"

  "And school's been out for almost a month."

  "I know," Prentice said, and thought: Moving to a neighborhood where there isn't another kid in the whole damn block for him to play with, that might have something to do with it, too!

  "Then," Ann said, "it's me,"

  "No, no, no," He tried to smile. There wasn't any sense in arguing: they'd been through it a dozen times, and she had an answer for everything. He could recall the finality in her voice ..." I love the house, Hank. And I love the neighborhood. It's what I've dreamed of all my life, and I think I deserve it, Don't you?" (It was the first time she'd ever consciously reminded him). "The trouble is, you've lived in dingy little apa
rtments so long you've come to like them. You can't adjust to a really decent place--and Davey's no different, You're two of a kind: little old men who can't stand a change, even for the better! Well, I can. I don't care if fifty people committed suicide here, I'm happy. You understand, Hank? Happy."

  Prentice had understood, and had resolved to make a real effort to like the new place. If he couldn't do that, at least he could keep his feelings from Anne--for they were, he knew, foolish, Damned foolish. Everything she said was true, and he ought to be grateful.

  Yet, somehow, he could not stop dreaming of the old man who had picked up a razor one night and cut his throat wide open . . .

  Ann was staring at him.

  "Maybe," he said, "I'm going through a period, too." He kissed her forehead, lightly. "Come on, now; the people are going to arrive any second, and you look like Lady Macbeth."

  She held his arm for a moment. "You are getting settled in the house, aren't you?" she said. "I mean, it's becoming more like home to you, isn't it?"

  "Sure," Prentice said.

  His wife paused another moment, then smiled. "Okay, get the whiskers off. Rhoda is under the impression you're a handsome man."

  He walked into the bathroom and plugged in the electric shaver. Rhoda, he thought. First names already and we haven't been here three weeks.

  "Dad?"

  He looked down at Davey, who had slipped in with nine-year-old stealth. "Yo." According to ritual, he ran the shaver across his son's chin.

  Davey did not respond. He stepped back and said, "Dad, is Mr. Ames coming over tonight?"

  Prentice nodded. "I guess so."

  "And Mr. Chambers?"

  "Uh-huh. Why?" Davey did not answer, "What do you want to know for?"

  "Gee." Davey's eyes were red and wide. "Is it okay if I stay in my room?"

  "Why? You sick?"

  "No. Kind of."

  "Stomach? Head?"

  "Just sick," Davey said, He pulled at a thread in his shirt and fell silent again. Prentice frowned, "I thought maybe you'd like to show them your train," he said. "Please," Davey said. His voice had risen slightly and Prentice could see tears gathering. "Dad, please don't make me come out. Leave me stay in my room, I won't make any noise, I promise, and I'll go to sleep on time."