I couldn't believe in Solomon because I couldn't understand him. I did say that, and my daddy said, If you could understand him, he wouldn't be Solomon.
What's that mean?
Means he's mysterious.
So's fire, I said. But I wouldn't believe in it if it couldn't put out heat or burn anything.
You're young.
I was, too. Eleven.
By the time I was grown, I had the questions, and I had the answers. But I couldn't tell my daddy. On my eighteenth birthday, we were whooping it up, drinking liquor and singing, when somebody looked out the window. Everything stopped then. My daddy didn't even bother to go look.
Could be for anybody here, somebody said.
No. I feel it. It's for me.
You don't know.
I know. Lonnie's a man now, it's time for me to move on.
I went to the window. Some of the people we hadn't invited were behind Solomon, gazing at our house. He had the guitar unslung, and he was strumming it.
The people finished up their drinking quietly and looked at my daddy and went back out. But they didn't go home, not until Solomon did.
I was drunk, and this made me drunker. I remember I laughed, but my daddy, he didn't and in a little while he went on up to bed. I never saw him look so tired, so worn out, never, and I saw him work in the field eighteen hours a day for months.
Nothing happened the first week. Nor the second. But he didn't get out of bed that whole time, and he didn't talk. He just waited.
The third week, it came. He started coughing. Next day he called for my mother, dead those eighteen years. Doe Garson came and looked him over. Pneumonia, he said.
That morning my daddy was still and cold.
I hated Solomon then, for the first time, and I hated the people in the valley. But I couldn't do anything about it. We didn't have any money, and nobody would ever want to buy the place. So I settled in, alone, and worked and tried to forget about the old blind man. He came to me at night, in my sleep, and I'd wake up, mad, sometimes, but I knew a dream couldn't hurt you, unless you let it. And I didn't plan to let it.
Etilla said I was right, and I think that's when I first saw her. I'd seen her every Sunday at church, with her ma, when my daddy and I went there together, but she was only a little thing then. I didn't even know who she was when I started buying grain from her at the store, and when she told me her name, I just couldn't believe it. I don't think there's been many prettier girls in the world. Her hair wasn't golden, it was kind of brown, her figure wasn't skinny like the pictures, but full and lush and she had freckles, but I knew, in a hurry, that she was the woman I wanted. I hadn't ever felt the way she made me feel. Excited and nervous and hot.
It's love, Bundy Matthews said. He was my best friend. You're in love.
How do you know?
I just do.
But what if she ain't in love with me?
You're a fool.
How can I find out?
You can't, not if you don't do anything except stand there and buy grain off of her.
It was the hardest thing I've ever done, asking her to walk with me, but I did it, and she said yes, and that's when I found out that Bundy was right. All the nervousness went away, but the excitement and heat, they stayed. I felt wonderful. Every time I touched her it made my whole life up to then nothing but getting ready, just twenty-four years of getting ready to touch Etilla.
Nothing she wouldn't talk about, that girl. Even Solomon, who never was talked about, ever, by anybody else, except when he was traveling.
Wonder where he lives, I'd say.
Oh, probably in some cave somewhere, she'd say.
Wonder how he lives.
I don't know what you mean.
I mean, where does he find anything to eat.
I never thought about it.
Stray dogs, probably.
And we'd laugh and then talk about something else. Then, after we'd courted six months, I asked Etilla to be my bride, and she said yes.
We set the date for the first of June, and I mean to tell you, I worked from dawn to dusk, every day, just to keep from thinking about it. I wanted so much to hold her in my arms and wake up to find her there beside me in the bed that it hurt, all over. It wasn't like any other hurt. It didn't go away, or ease. It just stayed inside me, growing, till I honestly thought I'd break open.
I was thinking about that one day, out in the field, when I heard the music. I let go of the plow and turned around, and there he was, maybe a hundred yards away. I hadn't laid eyes on him in six years, but he didn't look any different. Neither did the holes where his eyes used to be, or the raven. Or the people behind him.
Long valley, dark valley . . . hear the wind cry! . . . in darkness we're born and in darkness we die . . . all alone, alone, to the end of our days. . . to the end of our days, all alone . . .
I felt the old hate come up then, because seeing him made me see my daddy again, and the look on my daddy's face when he held the ax in the air that first time and when he died.
But the hate didn't last long, because there wasn't any part of me that was afraid, and that made me feel good. I waited for him to finish and when he did, I clapped applause for him, laughed, and turned back to my plowing. I didn't even bother to see when they all left.
Next night I went over to Etilla's, the way I did every Thursday night. Her mother opened the door, and looked at me and said, You can't come in, Lonnie.
Why not?
Why not? You know why not.
No, I don't. Is it about me and Etilla?
You might say. I'm sorry, boy.
What'd I do?
No answer.
I didn't do anything. I haven't done what you think. We said we'd wait.
She just looked at me.
You hear me? I promised we'd wait, and that's what we're going to do. Now let me in.
I could see Etilla standing back in the room, looking at me. She was crying. But her mother wouldn't open the door any farther.
Tell me!
He called on you, boy. Don't you know that?
Who?
Solomon.
So what? I don't believe in all that stuff, and neither does Etilla. It's a lot of lies. He's just a crazy old blind man. Isn't that right, Etilla!
I got mad then, when she didn't answer, and I pushed the door open and went in. Etilla started to run. I grabbed her. It's lies, I said. We agreed on that!
I didn't think he'd call on you, Lonnie, she said.
Her mother came up. He never fails, she said. He's never been wrong in forty years.
I know, and I know why, too! I told her. Because everybody believes in him. They never ask questions, they never think, they just believe, and that's why he never fails! Well, I want you to know I don't believe and neither does Etilla and that's why this is one time he's going to fail!
I could have been talking to cordwood.
Etilla, tell your mother I'm right! Tell her we're going to be married, just like we planned, and we aren't going to let an old man with a guitar spoil our life.
I won't let her marry you, the old woman said. Not now. I like you, Lonnie Younger, you're a good, strong, hard-working boy, and you'd have made my girl a fine husband, but you're going to die soon and I don't want Etilla to be a widow. Do you?
No, you know I don't, but I keep trying to tell you, I'm not going to die. I'm healthy, and if you don't believe it, you go ask Doe Carson.
It wouldn't matter. Your daddy was healthy, remember, and so was Ed Kimball and Mrs. Jackson and little Petey Griffin, and it didn't matter. Solomon knows. He smells it.
The way Etilla looked at me, I could have been dead already.
I went home then and tried to get drunk, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. I kept thinking about that old man and how he took the one thing I had left, the one good, beautiful thing in my whole life, and tore it away from me.
He came every day, like always, followed by the people, and I
kept trying to see Etilla. But I felt like a ghost. Her mother wouldn't even come to the door.
I'm alive! I'd scream at them. Look at me. I'm alive.
But the door stayed barred.
Finally, one day, her mother yelled at me, Lonnie! You come here getting my Etilla upset one more time and I'll shoot you and then see how alive you'll be!
I drank a quart of wine that night, sitting by the window. The moon was bright. You could see like it was day, almost. For hours the field was empty, then they came, Solomon at their head.
His voice might not have been different, but it seemed that way, I don't know how. Softer, maybe, or higher. I sat there and listened and looked at them all, but when he sang those words, All alone, I threw the bottle down and ran outside.
I ran right up to him, closer then anyone ever had got, I guess, close enough to touch him.
God damn you, I said.
He went on singing.
Stop it!
He acted like I wasn't there.
You may be blind, you crazy old son of a bitch, but you're not deaf! I'm telling you--and all the rest of you--to get off my property, now! You hear me?
He didn't move. I don't know what happened inside me, then, except that all the hate and mad and sorrow I'd been feeling came back and bubbled over. I reached out first and grabbed that bird on his shoulder. I held it in my hands and squeezed it and kept on squeezing it till it stopped screaming. Then I threw it away.
The people started murmuring then, like they'd seen a dam burst, or an earthquake, but they didn't move.
Get out of here! I yelled. Go sing to somebody else, somebody who believes in you. I don't. Hear me? I don't!
I pulled his hands away from the strings. He put them back. I pulled them away again.
You got them all fooled, I said. But I know you can't smell death, or anything else, because you stink so bad yourself! I turned to the people. Come and take a sniff! I told them. Take a sniff of an old man who hasn't been near a cake of soap in all his life--see what it is you been afraid of!
They didn't move.
He's only a man! I yelled. Only a man!
I saw they didn't believe me, so I knew I had to show them, and I think it came to me that maybe this would be the way to get Etilla back. I should have thought of it before! If I could prove he wasn't anything but a man, they'd all have to see they were wrong, and that would save them because then they wouldn't just lie down and die, like dogs, whenever they looked out and saw Solomon and heard that damn song. Because they wouldn't see Solomon. He'd be gone.
I had my hands around his throat. I felt like wet leather. I pressed as hard as I could, and kept on pressing, with my thumbs digging into his gullet, deeper and deeper, and then I let him drop. He didn't move.
Look at him, I yelled holding up my hands. He's dead! Solomon is dead! God is dead! The man is dead! I killed him!
The people backed away.
Look at him! Touch him! You want to smell death, too? Go ahead, do it!
I laughed till I cried, then I ran all the way to Etilla's house. Her mother shot at me, just the way she said she would, but I knew she'd miss. It was an old gun, she was an old woman. I kicked the door open. I grabbed them both and practically dragged them back to my place. They had to see it with their own eyes. They had to see the old man sprawled out dead on the ground.
He was right where 1 dropped him.
Look at him, I said, and it was close to dawn now so they could see him even better. His face was blue and his tongue was sticking out of his mouth like a fat black snake.
I took loose the guitar while they were looking and stomped it to pieces.
They looked up at me, then, and started running.
I didn't bother to go after them, because it didn't matter any more.
It didn't matter, either, when Sheriff Crowder came to see me the next day.
You did murder, Lonnie, he said. Thirty people saw you.
I didn't argue.
He took me to the jail and told me I was in bad trouble, but I shouldn't worry too much, considering the facts. He never thought Solomon was anything but a lunatic, and he didn't think the judge would be too hard on me. Of course it could turn out either way and he wasn't promising anything, but probably it would go all right.
I didn't worry, either. Not until last night. I was lying on my cot, sleeping, when I had a dream. It had to be, because I heard Solomon. His voice was clear and high, and sadder than it had ever been. And I saw him, too, when I went to the window and looked out. It was him and no question, standing across the street under a big old elm tree, singing.
Long valley, dark valley . . . hear the wind cry! . . . in darkness we're born and in darkness we die. . . all alone, alone, to the end of our days. . . to the end of our days, all alone . . . .
It scared me, all right, that dream, but I don't think it will scare me much longer. I mean I really don't.
Tomorrow's the trial. And when it's over, I'm going to take me a long trip. I am.
* * *
Introduction to Unpublished Stories
* * *
The following stories were left unpublished at the time of Beaumont's death. Three--"Appointment With Eddie," "The Man With the Crooked Nose" and "The Carnival"--were to have been included in a fourth Beaumont collection, A Touch of the Creature. The book, to have been released in 1964, was dropped after lengthly negotiations with Bantam Books fell through in late-i 963.
"The Crime of Willie Washington" is an early work, and, according to one of Beaumont's letters, one for which he had a "great fondness." It reflects a young writer's obvious talents.
"To Hell with Claude" was to have been the last in a string of "Claude" stories ("The Last Word," "I, Claude," "The Guests of Chance;" "The Rest of Science Fiction') which Beaumont had written in collaboration with Chad Oliver. "The series," explains Oliver--which appeared in F&SF magazine--was the result of"a mutual dislike for all of the cliches that had crept into science fiction. We decided to just take all of them we could possibly cram into one story and just get rid of them. Forever. And, of course, we used an Adam and Eve frame, which was about as trite as you could possibly get . . ."
* * *
Introduction to TO HELL WITH CLAUDE
(by Chad Oliver)
* * *
January 10, 1987
Dear Chuck:
A lot of years, as Claude might say. You'll remember. We roughed out this story in 1955, rolling around on the floor and howling like maniacs. You wrote your part and sent it to me in April, 1956. 1 wrote the rest and finished it up last night. Who knows, maybe we have set some kind of record for procrastination. In any event, what with one thing and another, it came out about half Beaumont and half Oliver, as usual. We'll leave it to the Claude scholars to figure out who wrote what.
There are probably a few things I forgot to tell you the last time we talked. You know how it is. Did I mention how much I treasured your friendship? Did I mention how much I admired your magic with words? Did I tell you how proud of you I was? I suppose we were always too busy having fun to speak what was in our hearts.
Writing this was pure joy for me. It brought you back for a few days. Chuck, I can hear you laughing, and that is as it should be. That's how I remember you.
If there is a sadness--a fly in the old ointment, so to speak--it is because there can never be another Claude story in this world. That's all she wrote Claude, dear Claude, whatever he was, belonged to both of us. Where else could Tony Boucher, who bought the first Claude stories, appear as a character in the final epic? (Yes, and Mick McComas too, offstage but present in spirit.)
I am a little older now. Beje and I think of you often. I have looked a short distance down that last road you travelled. Not far, and a different bug, but I understand what you faced. Cheers, Chuck.
Hey, I'm not in any hurry. I'll hold the fort here for another decade or two. But when I see you again, what think you? Wouldn't it be great to do it all again,
one last time?
Old friend, Claude awaits. He won't let go of us.
With love,
Chad
* * *
TO HELL WITH CLAUDE by Charles Beaumont & Chad Oliver
* * *
There was a breeze, sun-warmed and gentle; the smell of magnolia blossoms; and, from the work fields, happy voices raised in song. To another, the day might have spelled Peace. But to Claude Adams, thrice father of the Earth's population, old now and tired, tired, but still possessed of a mind sharper than any razor, there was little to cheer about. He fingered the bulky object in his lap for a fleeting moment and then sent it hurtling across the room.
"Books!" he snorted.
"Now, Dad," his wife said.
"Books!" he repeated. "Confound it, Woola, it is not fair. It is lacking in justice. I get a civilization ticking, tune it finally to perfection, and what happens? The seeds of decay are planted. The rumblings of revolution. By all the Gods, woman, am Ito have no rest?"
Woola wheeled herself to her husband's side and ran desiccated, though cool, fingers through his stone-white hair. "I know, I know," she wheezed in what she fondly imagined to be a soothing manner. "You've worked so hard. But isn't it possible that you're getting your dander up over nothing?"
"Be damned to dander!" Claude had his blood up. "Nothing? Do you call those nothing?" He gestured toward the stack of ill-bound volumes in the corner and trembled like a wind-whipped sapling.
Woola could not reply.
"Here's the thing," Claude said, aware that he had startled the old lady. "We've got a pretty neat little lifeway working now. Nothing fancy, mind you, but it clicks right along, one-two, one-two, and. .
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