Dreamthorp

by Williamson, Chet

  Kraybill's eyes got a faraway look, and Laura thought for a moment that she could see faces in the pipe smoke. "Life is a constant war against evil," Kraybill said softly, "and you never win, not completely. It's just a series of small victories, keeping it at bay." Then he smiled. "But it's all we can do. And it's enough."

  Laura cleared her throat. "And what do you plan to do?"

  "Talk to people. Learn as much about Dreamthorp and its history as Mr. Lewis can tell me. Find out what power has come here, and then work to banish it."

  "How?" Tom asked.

  "Prayer, spells. Good things. Powwow is strong. And so is good."

  "Mr. Kraybill lives over near Campbelltown," Charlie told Tom and Laura, "but he'll be staying here with me for a few days. Or however long it takes." Charlie shrugged. "I just wanted the two of you to meet him. To find out what I had in mind."

  Tom nodded. There was an expression on his face that Laura could not read.

  "When Sam Hershey died," Charlie went on, almost as if trying to justify it to himself, "I knew that there had to be more to this than just a series of accidents and some maniac hitting the town at the same time. I love Dreamthorp. You both know that, and you know how much. And I think you feel the same way. So I'm willing to try anything, no matter how farfetched it might seem." He cleared his throat, and Laura thought he seemed embarrassed. "Thanks to both of you for coming over. Mr. Kraybill and I will be going around talking to people tomorrow. If you'd like to come along, you're welcome."

  "I'm sorry, Charlie," Laura said, "but I've got to be in the office." She glanced at Tom, who was still wearing that unreadable expression.

  "Maybe, Charlie," he said, "I don't know. I'll think about it."

  They said good night, and Tom walked Laura to her door. "You want to come in?" she asked him, but he shook his head.

  "No thanks. I'm sorry, I'm just a little confused tonight." She knew she shouldn't ask it but couldn't help herself. "Did you buy any of that?"

  "I don't know," he answered quickly enough. "I really don't. God knows it sounds almost logical."

  "That's just because there's no other solution right now."

  "You don't think it's possible?"

  "I didn't say that. I just think that it's highly unlikely. I'd be willing to believe in the most preposterous natural theory before I'd believe in the supernatural."

  Tom nodded—grudgingly, Laura thought. "You're right, I guess." But the far-off look in his eyes told her that he really didn't believe it.

  When Tom got back to his cottage, he sat down at the kitchen table and made the following list on a yellow legal pad:

  June 14 Playhouse deaths—pillars

  June 18 Thatcher—step

  June 21 Sipling—chest

  June 28 Hershey—tree

  July 19 Brewer—carving

  Aug. 3 Warfel—floorboards

  Aug. 8 Gianini & Forbes—columns

  Tom looked at the list for a long time, trying to find something in it, some pattern other than what Kraybill had suggested. But there was none. The dates showed no pattern, fnr did the choice of victims. The only constant was the mode of death: in every case it had come from wood.

  He stood up, went into the hall, and opened the door to his cellar workshop. Just as his hand touched the light switch, a sound came from below but stopped immediately. He listened for a moment, sweat suddenly clammy on his face, but there was nothing further. A mouse, he thought, or a chipmunk. That was all it was, all that it could be. He forced a chuckle and went down the stairs.

  The block was there where he had left it, but it was a simple block no longer. His skill had made it take on the rudiments of a man, and he nearly shuddered at the results of his work. It was huge and megalithic and frightening, a figure from a nightmare. And so it was, he thought. From Laura's nightmare.

  It was still tough and crude, and he had much more to do before he could call it complete, but so far it was the finest work, the truest thing he had ever done. In a way he felt guilty over how easy its creation had been. It had not seemed that he was chipping a thing into being as much as merely freeing something held captive within the tree.

  After his first day or two of work on it, the shape had nearly dictated itself to him. It was as if it had tried to hide at first, but after more and more of it was exposed it had finally said, All right then. You want to see me? You shall. After that, all he had to do was to carve away the extraneous chunks of wood and let the details of the figure appear.

  It was a fancy, Tom knew. He supposed that because of his own insecurity, he was telling himself that he was not capable of work this good, and rationalized it by imagining that the wood was doing the work, not himself. Grover Kraybill's wild theory fit his fictitious scenario perfectly, and although he knew all these things, he could not help but look upon his nearly completed carving with a newfound respect.

  He touched the wood, roughened by chisel blows, tracing the grain with his fingers that bore two decades worth of scars, scars that had grown over themselves so many times that now, when the chisels slipped and dug into flesh, the wounds no longer bled, but only widened for a moment and closed again, as though he had cut into a resilient clay. He touched the wood, feeling the brawny arms of the figure, its solid, massive chest, and at last the face, only roughly carved as yet. But the features were there: jutting jaw, prominent nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and the hollows from which the eyes would stare out at a fleshy and vulnerable world.

  "Hello, Gilbert," he whispered to it, not knowing who it was, only certain that it was not Gilbert Rodman, but someone or something far older and certainly far more dangerous.

  Tom looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was almost ten o'clock. There was time, he thought. He was not tired. He picked up a mallet and a skew chisel and began to work. Wood can live, he thought, I've spent my life trying to prove it.

  Surely of all superstitions that is the most imposing which makes the other world interested in the events which befall our mortal lot.

  —Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp

  The next morning Grover Kraybill was sitting outside on Charlie Lewis's porch when Charlie woke up and came downstairs. "It's only seven," Charlie told the man. "How long have you been up?"

  "A little before six," Kraybill said.

  "You were up late too. I saw the light under your door when I got up to take a . . . to use the bathroom."

  "You don't have to be delicate around me, Mr. Lewis," Kraybill said with a grin. "I've heard . . . and said worse words than piss."

  Charlie chuckled. "I was afraid you'd be offended . . ."

  "Being so religious and all? Well, God doesn't mind good, practical words. He doesn't like his name taken in vain, though, and that I won't do and don't like to hear." Kraybill set down his coffee cup. "I was up late last night, you're right. Praying till after midnight. It never hurts to pray, and always helps, I've found. Evil doesn't like prayer, and what you've got here in Dreamthorp is evil, I'm sure of that."

  Charlie nodded, wondering if Kraybill had made a large pot of coffee, thinking that the only thing he would pray for right now was a cup of the stuff, black and hot as sin, and Kraybill, as though reading his mind, nodded toward the cottage door. "I made eight cups. I like a lot of coffee in the morning. Hope you don't mind."

  "Mind? I'm delighted. Be right back."

  When Charlie returned, wondering how Kraybill made his coffee taste so much better than he ever did, he found the powwow man in the living room looking over the rows of records. "You like jazz," Kraybill observed.

  "Devil's music," Charlie said dryly. "You know the origin of the name?"

  "Something to do with rutting, wasn't it?"

  "It was indeed."

  Kraybill shrugged. "It's all right. Music is music. Good for the soul. Like tobacco, even though it's bad for the body." And with that comment, he lit his pipe and kept it going, even while they had breakfast.

  "Tell me about this Hershey man,"
Kraybill asked as they cleaned up the breakfast dishes. "He died very queer."

  "Queer's not the half of it," Charlie said.

  "What was he doing in that grove anyway?" Kraybill asked, handing another dish to Charlie to put away.

  "Digging for relics, I guess. He found a quartz carving there before."

  "A quartz carving? What was it of?"

  "Well, I saw it, but it didn't look like much of anything. A human figure, I think. He and his wife sold it to a museum, and the curator told them the same thing I was able to find out—that it was Indian and was supposed to be a funeral carving of some sort."

  Kraybill raised his white eyebrows. "A funeral carving. Buried with the dead?"

  "It may be. I suppose he was digging for more artifacts."

  "Where is this grove at?"

  Charlie looked at Kraybill sharply. "You think that's it?"

  "I don't think anything yet."

  "No no," Charlie said, a devilish grin starting to form on his face. "You really do. An Indian graveyard? An Indian curse? Are you serious?"

  "You were ready to believe what I said last night."

  "Yeah, but there's a difference when you go from the general to the specific. I mean, an Indian graveyard? It just sounds too pulpy to be real."

  "Old magics are strong, Mr. Lewis. Remember, they were born of wide belief."

  "So were the Greek gods, but that doesn't mean they were real." Charlie held up his hands as if to ward off the argument he expected from Kraybill. "Okay, look, I'm sorry, but I've been a beetle-browed agnostic for so long that I just can't change in a few days, no matter what I might see to the contrary. This sculpture theory is . . . a possibility, I admit it. Anything is possible. There. I'm willing to admit that much, okay? So if you think you want to follow it up, fine. I won't scoff; I won't even giggle, you have my word."

  "Well, that's fine," Kraybill said with a small smile. "But I have no 'sculpture theory,' as you say. I'd only like to see this grove where Mr. Hershey died."

  "I thought you wanted to talk to some of the people in town today," Charlie said.

  "The grove first," Kraybill said, refueling his pipe. "Besides, I could use a little walk to get rid of some of that good breakfast."

  Charlie nodded. "Let me get out of this bathrobe."

  "Just tell me how to get there."

  Charlie looked at him. "You don't want to go alone?"

  "No harm will come to me."

  "That's what Sam Hershey thought."

  "You've been to the place since, haven't you?"

  "Sure, but not alone. Tell you the truth, I'd feel damn funny going there alone."

  "I won't be alone, Mr. Lewis. I'll be safe."

  "What do you mean, you won't be alone? You got a mouse in your pocket?"

  Kraybill barked a high, phlegmy laugh. "No, no mouse. Something better." He popped his pipe into his mouth, reached behind him, and drew from his hip pocket a small book. It was impossible to say what color the leather that bound it had originally been, but years and use had burnished it to a dull green the shade of copper that has lain in the ground for a long time. He handed it to Charlie, who, upon opening it, was surprised to find how short it was. The paper of the pages had swollen over the years, making the volume of less than a hundred pages appear much thicker.

  There was no printing left on the leather spine, so Charlie turned to the title page, where he saw a small, round picture of an owl sitting on the back of a chair, reading a massive book. "Powwows, or The Long-Lost Friend," he read aloud. "I should have known."

  "You said you have a copy."

  Charlie nodded. "Not this old, though."

  "This is the first edition. It was John George Hohman's own copy. The first off the press. It passed from generation to generation, and finally from my mother to me, along with the learning."

  "More than is in the book, then."

  "Much more. But what's in the book is sufficient unto the day." Kraybill took the book and turned it to the last page. "Look."

  A typographic hand pointed to the words, worn to near invisibility on the oily page:

  Whoever carries this book with him, is safe from all his enemies, visible or invisible; and whoever has this book with him cannot die without the holy corpse of Jesus Christ, nor drown in any water, nor burn up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him. So help me.

  This was followed by three crosses: a large one in the middle and two smaller crosses on either side.

  "The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," Kraybill said.

  "It seems to me," Chrlies said, "that this isn't so much a warrant of safe passage as it is the comfort that if you do die you'll go to Heaven."

  "It's interpreted a number of ways, but I've never come to harm yet."

  "You've never tried ghostbusting in Dreamthorp yet," Charlie said, handing Kraybill the book. "I admire your faith, but I've got doubts about your wisdom. Wait until I grab a shower and change my clothes, huh?"

  "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Lewis, I don't want you to come. I intend to pray, and I'd rather not have anyone there."

  "Secret prayers, huh?"

  Kraybill nodded. "Secret prayers."

  "I think you're very foolish. And I don't have to tell you where the grove is."

  "If you don't, someone else will. Besides, why on earth did you ask me to come here and help if you didn't expect me to do some fighting? There's no way to be safe in the face of something like this. I've got to take risks to confront this evil and pray to God to cast it out. There's no other way."

  Charlie Lewis eyed Kraybill for a long time. "You really know what you're doing?" he finally said.

  "I know what I'm doing." The powwow man patted the book lovingly and slipped it back into his pocket. "And I'm not going alone."

  "All right then. I'll tell you how to get there. But watch that damn pipe when you go. With everything else that's been happening here, we sure as hell don't need a fire."

  The morning was good, Grover Kraybill thought, just like all things that came from God were good. The sun shone brightly down through the open patches of trees, and even though the air was hot and dry, gray-white clouds were visible high overhead with their promise of rain, rain that would ease this dusty earth and bring new greenness to the yellowing leaves. God would provide.

  And God would reveal the truth, a truth which Grover Kraybill already suspected. It was the Indian grave. Something had been disturbed there. Spirits had been freed. And those spirits had somehow linked themselves with or become a wood spirit, had entered the wood of the town, and done terrible things. But God would set it right. God, and the prayers of Grover Kraybill, and the power of powwow.

  It was only natural, he thought, that the power should put down the power of these dead, tormented spirits. Had not powwow itself been named after American Indian magic and medicine? There was an affinity there, and Kraybill would use the Indian prayers his mother had taught him, along with the Christian ones, to give these souls peace and to bring peace to this lovely community again.

  An open area appeared ahead, and in another dozen paces Grover Kraybill stepped into the grove. He stopped at the perimeter and looked about him.

  It seemed a quiet place. Low brush, browned by the heat, covered the ground, and a few bushes, their sere leaves trembling in the slight breeze, pushed out of the scorched dirt. A large, freshly cut stump sat near the edge of the woods, and it was this stump, Kraybill immediately deduced, that was all that was left of the tree on which Sam Hershey had died. He walked over to it, ignoring the small cloud of gnats that circled his head, and saw evidence of shallow digging. A few feet away, nearly covered by brush and filled in by a tire track, he discovered the remains of a deeper hole, which, by the relative settling of the dirt, he decided had been dug before the first ones he had seen.

  He pushed his hand down into the dirt, and found it loose to a depth of eight inches, where it became packed once again. He would pray, he thought, then perhaps come
back with a spade and see what lay beneath. He felt sure it would be bones, though in what condition they might be after so many centuries was questionable.

  Kraybill pushed himself to his feet and walked back to the stump. There he put his pipe in his hip pocket, knelt, lay his hands on the exposed, blond wood, and said a silent prayer in an Indian tongue. Aside from his own emotions, he felt nothing and heard only the electric buzz of the swarm of gnats. Indeed, he had never been physically aware of spiritual presences, had never experienced chills in places reputed to be evil, had never even seen any physical evidence of a ghost or spirit.

  Nonetheless, his powwow worked. Many people who came to him for help had been cured of their afflictions after he had blown fire or stopped their blood. Those who bore spells due to witchcraft were the easy cases. All he would do was say a prayer against witchcraft when he powwowed over them, and the spell would come into him instead, after which he would cleanse himself of it by meditation. That was what he planned to do now.

  The spell would be strong, he was sure of it, but he did not feel afraid. When it entered him, he would bind it and hold it and take it away, and pray over it and meditate upon it, and soon it would be purged, and his powers would be replenished.

  His eyes closed, he prayed more rapidly within his mind, a litany of Christian and Indian and Buddhist and Hindu prayers and chants, creating a phantasmagoria of pleading worship. And for the first time, with a dull shock, he realized that there was an actual physical manifestation. His feet were tingling. The thought intruded upon his prayers that his feet were simply asleep, that his kneeling attitude had cramped his aging muscles. Trying to keep the prayers rolling through its head, he flexed his ankles, wiggled his toes, only to find that the discomfort he felt in his legs had now moved to his hands, as if, instead of binding the power that occupied this place, he was himself bound.