“Why won’t it work? Get me that broom!”
“Okay, Canute. Have it your way.”
She flounced into the house and a moment later the broom came bouncing out. Drake caught it and began to sweep industriously, sending the offensive puddle in foaming waves down the walk. Observing the damp spot that remained, he shook the moisture from the broom with complete satisfaction and went into the house.
Drake was in process of mangling his third pork chop when Mr. Barnes, the neighborhood newspaper distributor, knocked on the door. He passed the paper and a mumbled apology through the door to John.
“That’s certainly a man-size puddle you’ve got there,” he allowed. “You got a bad sag in your walk. What I always say about these houses they build nowadays, scamp the work, that’s what they do! Never try to see a thing is done right. If you was me, I’d get hot after the contractor that left that sag in the walk. You get a puddle like that from watering your yard, you’ll see it’s a fright when it rains!”
With that, he politely touched the brim of his fedora, stepped off the porch and sloshed off through the puddle. Drake stared after him, nonplussed. It was almost dark, and the puddle gleamed silvery with sky light.
Beverly said over his shoulder, “I see it’s back.”
There was a tone of smug satisfaction in her words that stung Drake.
“I suppose you knew it would’ be?” he hurled at her.
“Yup. I swept it away three times myself today!”
“Get me that broom again!” Drake snapped. “I’ll do some more sweeping—see if it’s a water line bust, or a spring in our front yard!”
“John, dear…your supper…”
“Hang supper! I’ve finished anyway.”
He swept the water away again. During the last half of the operation, he had to have the porch light on to see by. Finally, there was only a damply gleaming streak reflecting the shine of the early evening stars.
Drake examined the ground on both sides of the walk and along the foundation, but there were no tell-tale streams of moisture bubbling from the earth or anywhere else. For the last time, Drake shook out the broom, stamped moisture from his soggy footgear, and went grumpily back into the house. He left the porch light on for the expected arrival of the Harrians.
Neither John nor Bev heard Ben and Zuelda Harrian drive up. A bedroom intervened between the living room and the driveway, and the TV set was making an exorbitant amount of noise. A loud hallooing and banging at the back door announced the arrival of the expected couple.
“The front door’s for coming in,” Drake greeted them pleasantly, switching on the drive light. Zuelda, tiny, buoyant, vivacious and brunette, assumed a mien of mock indignation.
“Wade through that puddle? Or do you furnish a boat?”
Tall, handsome Ben Harrian, as dark and somber as his wife was dark and sparkling, nudged her through the door.
“Go in, Zuelda!”
The expression was just like him, Drake thought…so grammatically proper. He could not imagine Ben saying “go on in” like a native would have said it.
“Don’t keep the man waiting with the door open,” Ben concluded, and grinned at Drake as they passed through the kitchen. “That is a big sink you have in your front yard, Jack. Been watering the lawn?”
“That’s the second time tonight somebody has blamed lawn watering for that puddle,” Drake retorted. “I haven’t got enough of a lawn to waste our high-priced water on. If there’s a puddle there now, it’s grown in the last hour. I’ve swept it away twice this evening. I don’t know where it comes from…nor where it goes to!”
Ben lifted heavy, perfectly arched brows.
“Tut, tut…not so touchy, Jack! Sorry to tramp on your feelings, but it is a big puddle.”
“All right,” Drake said. “All right! Let’s go into the living room.”
The living room emitted a blast of variegated squeals and giggles as Bev and Zuelda came face to face. The Harrians were really Beverly’s friends, Drake thought, as he put their things away in the bedroom while Bev and Zuelda hugged each other.
The Harrians had arrived in the city, friendless, a few months ago, and Ben had landed a job in the shipping department of Drake’s company. A background of extensive Old World travel and an uncanny familiarity with every backwoods hamlet in America made Ben a natural for the shipping department post.
Drake, of course, had been responsible for Beverly’s meeting Zuelda. He’d invited the couple the first time, out of a desire to be friendly to the new man. Ben had accepted the invitation with a surprising warmth, and from then on…well, it had been like a rolling stone picking up momentum.
Not that he disliked Ben Harrian. Drake just was not a gregarious type, and the thoughtless remarks of others frequently irritated him. Ben was quite good at being irritating, and apparently without meaning to be.
Zuelda, now…she was cute and convivial and…well, hell!…it’s natural for a man to take less umbrage with a good-looking woman than with another fellow, isn’t it? Zuelda had a mouth like a fresh, red rosebud, deep, dark eyes that swam in a sea of gaiety, and a figure… Drake’s neighbors never irritated him with things like that!
The group settled down to a comfortable game of canasta. The conversation was bright and sparkling. Ben was witty, Drake had to say that for him. He was extremely cultured, betraying in speech and manners an unusual education coupled with a wide knowledge of little known subjects.
Ordinarily, Drake enjoyed the Harrian’s company well enough, but tonight a worry oppressed him. He didn’t like things that went unexplained. Finally, he put words to his aggravation.
“The thought of that puddle is getting me down!”
“Tell your contractor about it,” Ben observed judiciously, quietly studying his cards and playing with great care.
“You mean I should make him replace the walk. The walk doesn’t need replacing. There’s no sink in it. But where is that water coming from?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ben observed lazily.
“I should worry,” Drake said stiffly. “It’s my walk.”
The game continued with something less of its former sparkle. Bev mixed and served cocktails, and spirits picked up again.
“It’s either a busted water main or a spring in the front yard,” Drake gloomed.
“How terrible!” Zuelda put in. “Your nice new house!”
Drake looked at her gratefully. Ben tapped his cards against a gleaming thumbnail.
“A spring? That’s a possibility, Jack.”
Drake tossed his hand on the table.
“Come on, Ben. Let’s look it over. Maybe you can see something I couldn’t the last time I looked.”
Armed with a flashlight, Drake flipped on the porch light and went out. The puddle was a black and shining smear at the foot of the steps, extending out a considerable distance along the walk and into the yard on either side. Drake flashed the torch over the far perimeter of the glistening slick.
“It’s bigger than it was last time, and for the life of me, I can’t figure what keeps it from flowing down the walk. Might as well be tar.” He dipped the toe of his shoe into the pool. “But it isn’t. It’s water, all right.”
Ben made a humming noise in his throat but offered no other comment. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.
“Might be a spring at that, Jack! I know a fellow who might be able to tell you something. Old Tom Ellers…he lives over near us, on a back street. Sort of a neighborhood handyman. He…” Ben stopped, at a loss for words.
“Go on,” Drake prompted. “He what?”
“He…he’s what they call a water witch…”
“One of those guys who twiddles a stick and finds water?”
“You might put it that way�
�”
“Ha!” Drake glared gloomily at the puddle. “I can find water without a stick. Here it is…see?”
“I mean,” Ben put in, “that Tom could find out where it is coming from…if it is a spring.”
Drake glanced sourly up at the taller man.
“You don’t believe that rot, do you?”
“Well…” Ben temporized. “I can’t do it myself, but Tom…”
“Let’s go in the house,” Drake grumped. Ben’s talk of the water witch irritated him more completely than anything else that had passed between them this night. “If I got a spring pouring up there, I can find it myself tomorrow!”
* * * *
Drake could not find the spring the following morning, though he swept the puddle away once more before going to work. Far from being happy at not finding the evidence he sought, Drake was so put out he failed to notice that yesterday’s puddles were gone from the road, though new pools of water gleamed among the row of houses under construction.
Having had the day in which to think over his predicament, he dropped into Ben’s office shortly before quitting time.
“What’d you call that fellow, Ben?”
Ben looked up from a desk full of papers. “What fellow?”
“You know…last night…was it…water witch?”
“Oh…you mean Tom Ellers. Sure. Decided to have a try at it? Now, I don’t guarantee Tom can actually tell you where that water is coming from, Jack…”
Drake waved a hand.
“I looked all over hell for a spring this morning. Didn’t find any.”
“Was the water still there?”
“I swept it away.”
“It’s gone now?”
“I…well…it’s always come back before. Let me call Bev.”
He scooped up Ben’s phone, dialed outside, then rapidly dialed his home phone number. Beverly answered promptly.
“How’s that puddle, hon? The one in front, I mean.”
There was a brief pause. “It’s back again, John.”
Drake swore. “Sorry, honey,” he apologized.
“That isn’t all.”
“Isn’t all?”
“No. There’s another one across the drive from the kitchen door, and a third one in the back yard!”
“Have you been…” Drake began suspiciously.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, I haven’t. And it hasn’t rained today, either.”
“Uh…thanks. See you.” Drake hung up, looked gloomily at Ben.
“Bev says it’s back…and there’s another in the side yard and one in back.”
Ben whistled softly.
“You just could have a spring breaking out in several places. You’d better let me bring Tom Ellers over this evening.”
“Sure, but…what could he do?”
Ben shrugged. “He might be able to give you a hint whether it’s permanent or not…or show you some way to divert it.”
Drake shook his head. “I can’t believe in that kind of stuff.”
Ben hoisted his shoulders again.
“Nobody does, really…except the water witches. Nobody believes in their ability…but they hire them every day to find water.”
“Is that true? I thought water witching was some kind of fable…”
“Many water sources have been discovered by the so-called water witches. Fable or not; they frequently do locate water underground with nothing but a stick.”
Drake gave in with a sigh. “Okay. How about bringing this…Ellers around, hey? I don’t know what good he can do, but maybe…just maybe…he can tell me for sure if I’ve got a damned spring running loose or not!”
* * * *
Ellers turned out to be a wizened little man of about sixty, gaunt as a pitchfork, sparsely topped with gray. His cheeks like old bacon rind were covered with a gray stubble. He was dressed in sordid blue overalls, and his wretched once-white shirt bore witness to at least a score of bachelor meals. He grinned all over, shaking hands with Drake.
“Pleased t’meet yew, Mist’ Drake!”
Drake smiled affably as the little dowser ambled out of Ben’s coupe.
“Ben…uh…tells me you’re a…water witch, Mr. Ellers.”
Tom Ellers’ blue eyes turned frosty. He frowned.
“They ain’t no sech thing as a witch, Mist’ Drake. I’m a plain, natural dowser, that’s all. I dowses for water…ain’t no witchin’ to it!”
Drake acknowledged his error with a look of pained embarrassment, hiding an inward smile.
“Do you think I’ve got a spring on the property, Mr. Ellers?”
The oldster stamped on the concrete drive, surveyed the lay of the land with a critical eye.
“T’tell ’e truth, Mist’ Drake, if I was one of these geology fellers, I’d say there wasn’t a chance in the world. This county is solid clay more than two hundred foot down, to bedrock. But that ain’t the case.” He fell musingly silent, scanning the slope behind the house and its thickets of scrub elm and willow. “No, sir, it ain’t the case. There’s lots of water here—I can feel it. I am one of them as can,” he observed with a proud grin, “though I like the feel o’ the stick for pinning it down. Let me cut a stick, now, and I’ll be right with you.”
Ellers stamped off briskly in the direction of the thicket behind the garage. Drake glanced inquiringly at Ben. The tall, dark man smiled easily.
“He’s gone to cut a divining rod—the forked stick he uses.”
Ellers returned in an instant, paring leaves and stems from a forked branch of elm.
“We c’n start aroun’ in front,” he hailed cheerfully, “by that big puddle, and come on aroun’ this away…”
He led off quickly, with a spryness that belied his years, shucking the last of the leaves in the drive. He skirted the edge of the puddle on the sad description of lawn, raising the “rod” until it pointed upward like a V, in a peculiar, back-handed kind of grip.
Drake was not prepared for what happened next. He jumped as the rod whipped violently downward, swung back up another half arc between Ellers’ arms and beat the air in front of’ his chin. The dowser’s brown face mirrored his physical strain. His arms twisted, seeming to fight the vicious pull of the rod, and he found it difficult to keep his footing. Suddenly the old man stumbled and fell, losing his grip on the writhing rod. Ellers got up with a shamefaced grin.
“You’ve sure got a lot of water under there, Mist’ Drake. See how that blamed rod th’owed me? One nev’ th’ow me befo’, though I did hear tell of it happenin’.”
He grinned, braced himself, and swung the rod upward. It flapped violently again, seeming to twist itself from the old man’s grip.
“Plenty there, all right,” Ellers grunted. “Naow, le’s aroun’ to side.”
He led off again, and Drake hurled an accusing glance at Ben.
“Is that guy nuts or something?”
The half-grin of understanding he had expected from Ben did not materialize. The tall man’s lean face suffused with a saturnine frown.
“You modern Americans don’t believe in anything; that’s your trouble!” he spoke harshly.
Drake shrugged, privately thinking that Ben Harrian must be nuts, too, if he took any stock in this sort of thing.
Ellers was in the side yard, his rod doing a witch’s dance over the second puddle. “I’d say, Mist’ Drake, they’s a great big spring feed in’ that pool, but you doan’ see it runnin’ out anywheh!” Drake regarded the pool. The sun was below the horizon, by now. It had been sunset when Ben drove in with the old fellow. Lingering twilight reflected from the surface of the pool, which seemed to ruffle, swirling, as if caressed by a brisk wind.
But there was no wind…not a breath. Drak
e peered more closely at the puddle. The surface was definitely agitated in brisk motion.
Ellers cupped the rod in his armpit and moved into the back yard where the performance was repeated. He held his rod up again, turning this way and that, seeming to read significance into the waving and waggling of the forked stick.
“I think, Mist’ Drake, I can find fo’ you where that stream is comin’ from…”
The oldster took off at a high lope toward the thicketed slope. Drake took a step to follow, heard Ben call out to Ellers, then Ben’s hand on his arm arrested him.
“He’ll be back in a minute. The big spring, or source, is probably up there on the slope some place. No use our crashing around the brush after him…he’ll go in a straight line through anything in the way!”
It was, Drake saw, almost dark. The sky still glared against the horizon, silhouetting the thickety ridge, which was now like a pool of ink.
Drake didn’t know how long they waited. Ben passed the time with a few comments on dowsing which he seemed to have gleaned from some place. It may have been ten minutes, or fifteen. Shadows gathered thickly on the drive until Drake could scarcely see the tall man’s face. Before they knew it, darkness closed in. Stars sprang into being in the velvety overhead. Drake fumbled his way to the kitchen door, found the light switch just inside, and turned on the drive light.
“Your friend ought to be coming back pretty soon, hadn’t he, Ben?”
Ben shrugged. “He may have gone farther than we think. No use shouting. If he’s still dowsing, he wouldn’t hear us.”
Drake peered across the drive toward the puddle that had puzzled him with its seeming agitation. He clutched Ben’s arm.
“Ben! The puddle…!”
The tall man swung around. “What…?”
“It isn’t there!”
“Sure enough!” Ben bit his lip. He looked sidelong at Drake.
“How about…?”
Drake bounded through the house, nearly scaring Beverly out of her wits. A long minute later, he returned slowly.
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 16
