Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02

by The School of Darkness (v1. 1)

  He snatched a backward look as he dodged between bone-pale gravestones with rounded tops. Three shapes followed him there, their naked skins shiny in the moonlight. One was the huge, hairy man who had played Hume. He dwarfed his companions. For a moment the three halted, close together, as though they peered and searched. Then one cried out hoarsely and pointed to where Thunstone went. Again they followed. He could hear the fall of then- feet.

  He had always hated to run from anything. He ducked into a clump of leafy laurel and waited there, catching his breath. He could hear them talking.

  “Here's where to settle him,’' said the booming voice of the big man. “Right here in this cemetery, where it’s convenient, Let the police come looking for him and find him here. Let them wonder why he died here.”

  “He’s hiding somewhere,” said another of the three, nasal-voiced.

  “He can’t hide from us,” blustered the giant. “He can run but he can’t hide. We’ll dig him out and leave him for them to dig under. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  Thunstone felt fury swell within himself and strove to master it. Now, if ever in all his life, he needed a clear, cool head. But he was through with scurrying and skulking like a hunted animal; he had never done those things well. He stepped out into the open and let the moon shine on him. The frogs and the insects had fallen silent,

  “But how now, Sir John Hume!” he said, quoting a line of Shakespeare. “Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum.”

  The huge bearded face lifted. Its eyes blinked in the light. “It’s you, huh?”

  “Who else?” Thunstone flung back at him. “Didn’t you come out here looking for me? All right, here I am.”

  “Quoting from that play, are you?”

  “It seemed appropriate,” said Thunstone. “The way you feel that this graveyard is an appropriate setting for what we might do here,”

  He fell on guard with his blade. A moonbeam flickered on it.

  The big fellow swayed forward a heavy pace and then another, like an elephant. He looked immense in the moon- glow, His shoulders were like great ledges. The matted hair crawled on his broad chest, his thick arms, as he flexed his muscles. His body seemed to spread, like the hood of a cobra. The whites of his staring eyes glittered.

  “You think you’ve got some kind of charm in that trick stabber of yours,” he said. “It just so happens I’ve got a charm or two myself. Come on, let’s see how quick and easy I can take it away from you.”

  “Let’s see you try,” Thunstone invited.

  The bulky shape moved forward another ponderous step, The two smaller men advanced from either side, as though to close in on Thunstone’s right and left,

  “Kamban-wa, ” came a clear, good-humored voice from somewhere apart from them all. “Good evening.”

  A small, dark-clad figure stepped delicately into the moonlight to stand at Thunstone’s left, A toothy smile and a pair of spectacles sparkled.

  “Who in hell is that?” roared the giant.

  “Kudashi, ” said the newcomer silkily, and his voice was the voice of Tashiro Shimada. “Please, Mr. Thunstone, let me attend to this matter.”

  The great hairy figure edged forward again, and Shimada seemed to flash to close quarters. There was a scrambling blur of limbs. Thunstone heard a wild yell as of pain. He saw the great hulk of the giant body whirl up against the stars of night, then fall clumsily and heavily. Tashiro Shimada stepped over the man he had felled and faced the one beyond.

  “You, too?” he inquired, as though offering hospitality. That man exclaimed as he turned and ran crazily, off into shadows toward the hedge. The other faced Thunstone for a moment. Thunstone slid into a lunge and flicked out his point horizontally, then shifted and brought it down vertically. The moonlight showed a slashed cross on the man’s cheek. A wordless cry and that man, too, whirled and fled away. Only the Hume giant lay where he had been thrown, writhing and whimpering on the grass, Shimada stooped and studied him, then straightened again.

  “He’s not badly injured,” he reported casually, “though he will be very sore and repentant tomorrow,”

  “How—” began Thunstone as he brought out a handkerchief to wipe the point of his blade.

  “Only judo,” said Shimada, coming back toward him. “Our ancient Japanese system of self-defense, in these days rather supplemented by karate. I have always been fairly good at it, though never one of the black belt masters. But this big overgrown man will ache all over when he comes to himself. Come, Mr. Thunstone, let’s be tactful and go away.”

  Thunstone sheathed his blade in the shank of the cane. He and Shimada turned from the fallen giant and walked off among the graves. They came out upon the graveled path that Thunstone had seen before, in silence. Finally:

  “All of us have wondered where you disappeared to,” said Thunstone.

  “Have you? So sorry if I caused you any concern. But I was extremely busy, extremely.”

  The frogs and insects were singing again.

  “Busy with what?” Thunstone asked.

  “With Shinto,” said Shimada. “With what it can say to illuminate the seeker.”

  They walked together on the crunching gravel. Thunstone began to realize that his night’s adventure had made him tired in muscles all through his big body. He had thought himself in fine phsyical condition, but he had been through strenuous adventures.

  “See,” said Shimada, his slender finger pointing. “That tomb. The tomb of Emdyke the long-ago mayor of the town, who as they say was friendly with Buford’s witch ladies. But Shinto tells that he was more than just that. He used witchcraft himself to gain possessions, to wield power to his profit. He was what you Americans call a wrong guy.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear it,” said Thunstone, “but I’m surprised that you were out here tonight.”

  “Shinto again. It helped with the knowledge that you came to Emdyke’s tomb and went inside, and on to what you found beyond, at the home of Grizel Fian.”

  Shimada had come close to Thunstone as he spoke, and a tangy odor smote Thunstone’s nostrils. “Cedar,” he said. “I smell cedar.”

  “Yes, cedars grow in this cemetery. I took the precaution of rubbing cedar needles on my face and hands, of putting twigs in my pockets, for possible help.”

  “The Japanese do that?” asked Thunstone.

  “No, but I heard of it from Reuben Manco, as used among his Cherokee tribesmen. I decided to be eclectic, to take any advantage.”

  Thunstone stood a moment to look at the Emdyke tomb. Again some huge flying thing flapped wings above them. He wondered again how that Hume giant fared, if he still lay where Shimada had so heavily thrown him. They walked on toward the campus.

  “What does Shinto say to the worshiper?” Thunstone asked.

  “Oh,” said Shimada. “Shinto says—Shinto has forever said that there is life and knowledge in every moment of every existing thing. Not only in the animals and plants, but in everything.”

  “I’ve heard that much,” said Thunstone, swinging his cane.

  “In everything,” repeated Shimada, as though to emphasize the point. “In rocks, from as big as a mountain to as small as a pebble. In wells, in rivers, in oceans and in little ponds no larger than pools. In empty, deserted houses— very strongly in those—and in tombs and in the bones of the dead, like the bones of Mayor Emdyke back there. In all things, I say, everywhere, all the time, all times.”

  Walking, Shimada stared pensively up at the stars on the velvet cloak of the sky.

  “Shinto means the way of the gods, more or less,” he went on. “It must have always meant that, all the way back to the first men in Japan, those men who chipped stone for tools, who were finding out how to think and speak. As I said today in the auditorium, the Japanese people are two hundred thousand years old or more. I think that Shinto is as old as the Japanese. It is not a late importation like, say, Buddhism, or, more recently, Methodism or Congregationalism.”

  As he ta
lked, they approached the low wall with its gap that marked the boundary of the campus. Beyond rose the Playmakers Theater, where Grizel Fian had staged her bits of Shakespearean witchcraft and ghostly visitation. The theater was unlighted now, silent now. They passed through the gap in the wall.

  “How does Shinto come into these things you’ve been doing?” was Thunstone’s next question.

  “From my first moments here, I sensed a strangeness of things at this place, as you did,” said Shimada. “Sensed it as you did, as Reuben Manco and Father Bundren did. But I myself am not a good enough Shintoist. I fear that I’ve become a sophisticate, even an Occidentalism in some ways. And so I made inquiries here and there, and on the campus I met a very, very good Shintoist indeed,”

  “Who?” asked Thunstone.

  “He is a student here on some sort of international fellowship. His name is Oishi Kyoki, and his Shintoism is by long inheritance. His father in Japan is a distinguished scholar and mystic, has spent his life in the study and perfection of Shinto, and he has taught his son very well. Oishi Kyoki listened to my worried questions and agreed to help and went into communication.”

  “What communication?”

  “At first with trees, with stone walls,” said Shimada as they walked past the theater. “Then he established a sensation of hearing Grizel Fian herself—what strange books she read, what dishes she handled as she ate. Those objects spoke to him, and he heard. It was a profound experience for me to witness.”

  “I can imagine,” said Thunstone, who did imagine vividly. “What was your result?”

  They followed a concrete walk away from the theater toward the center of the campus.

  “I have said that I’m not as good at Shinto as Oishi is. I watched and listened. Sometimes I could assist. And tonight we learned what Grizel Fian did, what you did. We followed you almost to her house tonight. We heard how you embarrassed those devil worshipers. We were in the cemetery and saw you face those three men who hunted you, saw you about to be attacked. Then I waved Oishi away and made bold to help. As of now, our side is very much ahead in the game.”

  Thunstone nodded agreement as they walked. “I’d like to meet your friend Oishi Kyoki,” he said.

  “Well, perhaps later. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  It was late. No traffic. No traffic moved on the street as they crossed and entered the Inn. A couple of guests, a man and a woman, sat in stuffed chairs and seemed to doze. The clerk at the desk read a book.

  “You’ve done amazing things, Professor,” said Thunstone. “More than I’ve done toward solving an ugly thing.”

  “But you ventured your safety, your life,” Shimada said. “I only watched and waited.”

  “You watched and waited, and you knew what you were doing every moment,” insisted Thunstone. “Professor, I think the Japanese will rule the world someday.”

  Shimada’s teeth flashed in a smile. “But of course,” he agreed smoothly.

  The elevator purred to a stop and the door slid open. They stepped in.

  “Would you come to my room and have a drink?” Thunstone.

  “I would be honored.”

  Thunstone pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator took them up and they emerged into the corridor.

  “Let me check here before we have that drink,” said Thunstone. “I promised that I would.”

  He knocked at Sharon’s door, and listened. No movement inside. He knocked again. “Sharon?” he called. And no answer.

  “Sharon!” he cried, more loudly. He grabbed the doorknob and wrenched and rattled it. Silence. He turned to the watching Shimada.

  “She’s not there,” he said, and surged his shoulder against the door, It creaked, but it did not give.

  “Here,” said Shimada, “shall we open it?”

  In his hand was a plastic credit card. Carefully he inserted it at the lock of the door. He manipulated judiciously, a hand on the knob. Then he drew the door open. The room was alight, and Thunstone went quickly in.

  Sharon was nowhere in that room. He saw that the door of the bathroom was open, and that just inside lay a blue silk robe. He hurried to see, dropping his cane on the floor. She was not in the bathroom, either. The window was open, perhaps a foot.

  “She’s gone,” he said to Shimada, coming back. He looked at the bureau. Upon it lay her cross with its gold chain, and beside the cross was the little silver bell he had given her.

  “She’s gone,” he said again, and he knew how stupid he sounded.

  Shimada stooped and picked up a folded paper from the carpet, “For you,” he said, handing it to Thunstone.

  On the outside was written in pencil, in a bold, sweeping hand:

  Please give this to my friend

  JOHN THUNSTONE

  X

  Thunstone opened the paper. He took one glance, and his brows locked into a scowl “Look,” he said to Shimada. “Look at this.”

  Shimada came to his side. Together they read:

  My Dear Thunstone:

  On the outside of this letter I spoke of you as my friend; because now my old hope for friendship with you seems about to bear rewarding fruit. This message comes to you by telekinesis—a term beloved by the late great Professor Charles Richet—movement of solid objects across distances. It is to inform you that I hold a delectable hostage, someone you prize highly. If you hope to see her again, you must come to mutually profitable terms with me. Needs must when the devil drives, says the old proverb, and just now the devil is solidly in the driver’s seat.

  We were ill-advised to try to kill you earlier tonight, and how glad I am that things have turned out like this. Getting hold of your Countess was no great problem, once I gave my attention to it and employed methods. I am able to see great distances when I have a mind to, and to perform great feats. I came to the street just opposite her window. When she laid aside the talismans you had given her—had, indeed, laid aside everything—to take a bath, I had only to say certain words and to beckon, and there she was outside with me, unclad and utterly mystified. I put her into the car I had brought along, and now she is safely sequestered, in small, comfortable quarters. Not, let me hasten to say, with Grizel. No point in bringing police or others to search GrizePs home. I have my own establishment, and you don’t know where it is.

  So now, to be abrupt, what are you going to do about it? Helpfully I suggest that you be calm, be practical, that you come to a good agreement with me. I’ve fought you in the past. Tonight, as I’ve confessed, I was in a mood to destroy you, and I’ve admitted that that was spiteful. Never have I underestimated you, and since like all living things I have complexities and contradictions, I’ve never utterly disliked you.

  So here, my new friend and ally, is what I would say you must do. To begin with, don’t talk tomorrow at that meeting. Make an excuse, you can come up with a good one. Meet instead with me, at a place I’ll choose. It should take very little time for us to decide what to do in a mutually rewarding relationship. One thing is to exert pressure to found and advance a whole department of interesting studies and experiments here at this Buford State University. Your influence would make this operation a success, and you must exert that influence, impress the university authorities, win them. I couldn’t, but you can. But before that, dismiss those other tiresome visitors here, that priest, that Oriental, that Cherokee posturer. Let them go back to their own world, the limited one that recognizes no more senses than five, no more dimensions than three. But you stay here, help me, and receive back your enchanting Countess.

  And if you say an angry no? Well, then you’ll never see her again. If we can’t have you, we’ll keep her instead. She might not be as great a help as you, but she can be of some use, having known you so long and well, having seen some of your methods. If you renounce her to us, we’ll take time and trouble with her. Eventually, she will join us. She will come to despise you for abandoning her. And she should be a great pleasure to associate with. She is so beautiful.


  Suppose then, that I call you on the telephone at about sunrise, and hear what you have to say to this, if anything.

  With great admiration and optimistic expectation, I am

  Your future partner,

  Rowley Thome

  Thunstone cursed aloud and almost tore the letter. Shimada took it from him.

  “Now,” said Shimada, “this is a time to be utterly rational.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” agreed Thunstone harshly. “Look, will you go and get Manco and Father Bundren? Bring them to my room, Number 312.”

  “At once.”

  Shimada was out of the room, swift as a lizard. Thunstone hurried to his own quarters, dropped Thome’s letter on a chair, and went to his open suitcase. He pawed into it to the bottom, where he had packed books. One of these he brought out, a small volume in a gray paper cover that was worn and tattered. The title was in heavy black letters:

  JOHN GEORGE HOHMAN’S

  POW-WOWS

  or

  LONG LOST FRIEND

  A collection of Mysterious and Invaluable Arts and Remedies Good for Man and Beast

  He opened to the first page, and read the preface he knew by heart:

  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 drowned in any water, nor bum up in any fire, nor can any unjust sentence be passed upon him.

  So help me.

  He turned more pages, searching for something he seemed to remember, when Shimada came in again. Behind him were Reuben Manco and Father Bundren, and behind Father Bundren entered Exum Layton, limp-mustached, pallid-faced.

  “I’ve brought our friend Layton along, he doesn’t care to stay anywhere by himself,” said Father Bundren. “Now, what is this story that Professor Shimada has half told us?”

  “Read that,” said Thunstone, pointing to the letter on the chair.

  Manco picked it up, and Father Bundren came to his side. Together they read it, in tense silence.