Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  At the village Percy tavern into a small cheerful tavern for a glass of beer. He felt guilty about spending the money, since he had been denying himself any personal extravagances for years; but tonight seemed different in some way he couldn’t analyze and a glass of beer seemed to be called for.

  There were four or five men sitting along the bar, and a few couples in the dark wooden booths. The bar was lined with knotty pine and there were a brace of ancient rifles hanging on one wall and a stuffed deer head above the bar.

  Percy studied the noble antlers of the deer as he sipped his beer, and his thoughts ran idly but swiftly into speculations about the life that graceful animal must have lived. He saw it clearly in the eye of his mind, racing like the wind through cold black forests and halting suddenly—one with the stillness and the night. That must have been fun, Percy thought rather wistfully. To drink at rippling streams, to browse in dry underbrush, to lie still and warm in the depths of a cave and watch wind and rain lashing the ground outside—what pleasure that must be!

  Percy turned back to his own problems rather reluctantly. He was the assistant art director of a large advertising agency and despised his job; but there was pretty good money in it and that was why Cynthia insisted he stick at it. But the money wasn’t enough for Cynthia’s tastes. He decided he could cut out lunch altogether and stop buying art folders. That would save a few dollars. But what else? He didn’t buy books or paintings anymore and spent very little on clothes. There were his oil paints. They didn’t cost much, it was true, but even those few dollars would have to be saved.

  Percy winced inwardly at the idea of giving up his painting. It was all he enjoyed doing, all he’d ever wanted to do. When he and Cynthia had been married she had been pleased by his painting. She regarded it as a somewhat aristocratic achievement. But she didn’t understand or like his work, and when she realized there was no money in it, she had seen to it that he spent his time at more commercial activities. Percy’s paintings didn’t make too much sense to most people and sometimes they made little sense, to Percy himself; but two critics of integrity and judgment had spent a long time with his canvases and both had told him to go on with his work. Percy wasn’t a realist or an impressionist; in fact he didn’t belong to any recognized school. He painted his subjects as they should be, and not as they were. Thus an apple might come out as a strong vigorous series of rectangles, somehow sustaining and enjoyable, while a chair might be a weird arrangement of curves into which the observer felt himself sinking endlessly. Percy’s only drawing of Cynthia was very strange. It was a solid black ball, heavy, oppressive, immovable.

  But now Percy had little time for his own work. His days were spent designing collar ads that showed beaming young men with big chests proudly wearing Remarko shirts. Or drawing toothy children lapping up Refresho soups. Sometimes he got in a week-end of painting when Cynthia was off visiting a college friend. But now he’d have to give that up too. The few dollars he spent on paints and brushes would go for a stock for Cynthia. Probably one made of yellow silk with figures of tiny black horses sewn onto it.

  “Relax, my friend, nothing is that serious.”

  PERCY turned sharply, guiltily at these words, and met the sardonic eyes of a young man who had taken the stool on his right. The young man was of thin but muscular build, with coarse black hair and ruddy cheeks. He wore a corduroy jacket, a woolen shirt and tweed trousers. There was the look of the open fields about him, the flavor of the country sportsman. But his eyes were odd. They were wild, reckless, mocking: the eyes of a devil or a saint.

  “I beg your pardon?” Percy said.

  “I’ve been watching you for the last few minutes.” the young man said. He said this calmly, casually, as if staring at strangers was the most normal thing in the world. “You seem awfully anxious about something. Not very happy, are you?”

  “Well—no,” Percy said. Something about the young man compelled honesty.

  “Of course you’re not. So few of us are that it’s hardly remarkable, I suppose. I noticed you before looking at the stag’s head above the bar. Then you seemed rather wistful. What is it? Do you envy the stag his freedom?”

  “Of course not!” Percy said, flustered. “Anyway, he’s not. very free is he?”

  “At the moment, no,” the young man said, casting an amused glance at the head above the bar. “However his life was free and exciting until he met a certain hunter. I got the impression you were speculating on the delights of freedom while staring at his unfortunate head. Isn’t that true?”

  “Well, yes, it is,” Percy admitted. There was just no point in lying to this young man. Percy knew that intuitively.

  “What sort of freedom did you have in mind?”

  “What sort? Why there’s only one sort, isn’t there?”

  The young man chuckled. “There are many varieties of freedom. Freedom to do nothing; freedom to do anything. Would you like to be free to follow a stag through a dark and dripping forest? Or would you like to be free to lie on a beach and do nothing—except perhaps, on brilliant days, paint a bit?”

  “How did you know I liked to paint?” Percy said, almost stuttering in his excitement “And that about following a stag? How did you know I’ve dreamed about things like that?” The young man shrugged modestly. “Just good guesses,” he said, but his eyes mocked the words. His eyes told Percy there was nothing accidental about his information.

  “Who are you?” Percy asked.

  “My name is Black,” the young man answered. “That doesn’t tell you who I am, of course, although I am no one of importance. What I mean is that names are labels that do not identify their wearers. A man named Smith is a murderer! The Smith part of him doesn’t tell us that, does it?”

  “Well, no—no, it doesn’t,” Percy said weakly.

  The lean young man waved to the bartender. “Two whiskies, please.”

  “But I don’t drink whisky!”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Black said, with a wicked smile.

  THE two shot glasses were placed before them and filled with whisky. Percy studied his dubiously. Mr. Black took a small, lacquered box from his pocket and from it removed two tiny pills. He dropped one of the pills into his glass, and then grinned at Percy as he held the other pill poised above Percy’s glass.

  “Well? Would you like to try a rather interesting prescription of mine?”

  “W-what is it?”

  “Nothing very new or important,” Mr. Black said with a modest shrug. “However you may enjoy it. Who knows? It might even help to acquire that freedom you are so eagerly hoping for?”

  “I’ll try it,” Percy said boldly. He felt suddenly reckless, heedless of consequence. There was a quality about this young man that inspired rebellion.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Black dropped the pill into Percy’s glass where it fizzed briefly and disappeared. “Now we shall drink,” he said, raising his glass. “To your dreams!” he said, and tossed down his liquor.

  “To my dreams!” Percy repeated slowly; and then drank his own drink. The pill, whatever it was, had no taste or odor. The whisky was smooth, potent and warming; the pill hadn’t affected it in any manner that Percy could detect.

  Percy savored the exciting warmth that was flooding through his arms and legs, travelling slowly and sinuously from the hot center in his stomach. He put down his glass reluctantly and turned to the young man.

  “That tasted fine,” he said. “I think—”

  Percy stopped abruptly, in midsentence. He realized with a frightening start that he was addressing empty air. The young man was gone. Percy glanced along the bar, thinking that the young man might have drifted to another stool But he wasn’t anywhere in sight. Maybe he’s gone to the men’s room, Percy thought. Yes, that undoubtedly was it . . .

  Percy waited twenty minutes but the young man didn’t return. Finally, bewildered and uneasy, he signalled the bartender.

  “Do you remember that young chap who was sitting next to me?” he
asked.

  The bartender was a graying man, with an intelligent face and a professional air of deference.

  “I can’t say that I do, sir,” he said. “I haven’t noticed anyone sitting beside you, sir.”

  “You haven’t? Well, this is silly. You served us two whiskies a while back.”

  “Two whiskies? I’m sorry, sir, but I only served one whisky.”

  “Well, take a look at his glass then,” Percy said. “How did that get there?”

  “What glass, sir?”

  Percy glanced at the section of the bar beside him and saw that it was clean and empty. There was no glass within twenty feet of him except his own.

  “I couldn’t have imagined all this,” Percy murmured to himself, “I simply couldn’t. There was a young man, a man named Black, and he put a pill of some kind in my drink.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing at all,” Percy said. The bartender was regarding him with a worried frown he noticed. This wouldn’t do at all. The man must think he was drunk. “Ha, ha,” Percy laughed, with an impressive note of insincerity in his voice. “I was just trying a little experiment on you.”

  “Experiment, sir?”

  “Yes, testing the power of suggestion, you know.” Percy babbled on, desperately trying to convince the bartender that all was well. “You see, most people are very susceptible to suggestion. If you say to them, as I did to you, ‘Did you see that chap I was with?’, they’ll answer, ‘Yes, of course.’ Do you see?”

  The bartender pursed his lips, regarded Percy steadily. “But there was no young man,” he said.

  “Quite, quite,” Percy said, with a hearty laugh. “No young man at all.”

  “I see. It was a bit of a joke, eh?”

  “That’s right, a bit of a joke.”

  “Ha, ha,” the bartender laughed politely. He gave Percy one frozen grin, and then walked off with his shoulders set at a stiff, unamused angle.

  PERCY left some change on the bar and hurried out into the night. It was nearly eleven o’clock, he noticed with dismay. Cynthia would be worrying about him by now. And when he made her worry she took it out on him somehow.

  Percy left the village and hurried through the darkened streets toward his home. Overhead a pale moon was obscured by drifting clouds. The light that filtered through the waving tree branches was dim and filmy.

  Percy was conscious of the need for speed. He buttoned his coat, pulled his hat down tighter, and began to run through the night. His breath came quickly, and he could hear the pounding of his heart, synchronized with the pounding of his feet on the sidewalk.

  Everything else was still and quiet. There was a whisper of wind in the trees, and the masses of clouds moved slowly to hide the face of the moon, but all else was as silent as the grave.

  Percy realized that he had never run so fast in all his life. He was literally hurtling along like an express train, and he seemed to be quite close to the ground. He could see the cracks in the sidewalk flicking back out of sight between his legs, and the shrubbery at his side, which now seemed very high, was falling behind him with a rush.

  Soon he was at the block he lived in, and he could see his house ahead, dark and silent. There was a gate at the front of the house, and Percy soared over it with an effortless bound. It was a delightful sensation, free and exhilarating, and Percy wondered with a pang of concern from whence all this energy was stemming. Reaching his porch, he trotted up the steps and began fumbling for his keys.

  But something was radically wrong!

  Percy couldn’t get his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t find the proper openings, and his hands—oddly inept and fumbling now—seemed to be scratching unavailingly at the sides of his coat.

  It was all very disturbing, and Percy decided guiltily that his present confusion must be a result of the drinking he had done. He became aware that he was staring at the brass letter drop in the door, and oddly enough, the letter drop was on a direct level with his eyes. That simply couldn’t be, Percy thought, unless—and this was foolish—unless he were down on all fours.

  He glanced down involuntarily, and the breath suddenly left his lungs like air from a bursting balloon.

  Percy was on all fours!

  HE was on all fours and he had paws instead of hands and they were covered with thick grayish fur. Percy spun about in a circle, his mind reeling with fright, trying to catch another glimpse of what he had apparently turned into; but all he saw was a waving ropy tail that was affixed in some manner to his back.

  “My God!” Percy cried.

  No words sounded in the still night; instead Percy heard a shrill keening howl that transformed his blood into rivulets of ice. He let out a cry of terror, and again he heard the unearthly howl ringing in his ears.

  Suddenly he realized that he was making the noise.

  A light flashed on above him—from Cynthia’s room. The window opened with an angry bang.

  “Get out of here, you filthy cur!” It was Cynthia’s voice, rasping and angry.

  Percy glanced up and saw his wife framed in light, staring down at him with outraged indignation.

  “Dear, I can explain everything,” Percy said, forgetting that he couldn’t speak anymore. He winced and ran about in confusion as his series of apologetic barks sounded in the silence.

  “Scat, get away, get out of here!” Cynthia cried.

  Sighing, Percy trotted across the lawn and slid into the shelter of the bushes at the corner of his lot. He turned about a few times, then settled down and watched his wife. His eyes were extremely sharp, he realized. He could see the anger in her face, the tight lines about her mouth, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She was staring in his general direction, but couldn’t see him, he knew. Finally, after a few moments, she closed the window; the light disappeared and something like peace again settled over the neighborhood.

  Percy considered his position glumly. Obviously something quite catastrophic had happened to him: he had been turned into some sort of dog or wolf.

  It must have been the doings of the weird young man he had met at the bar. But he hadn’t met any young man at the bar. That whole incident was a hallucination if the bartender were to be believed. Percy shook his head worriedly. What was a man—or a dog—to believe?

  Percy heard a deep challenging Sound off to his left. He stiffened instantly, and felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. A loud growl came from his throat.

  He saw a huge shape emerge from the shadows of his house and move toward him with stiff menacing steps. This was Killer, the next-door-neighbor’s huge and vicious airedale. Percy retreated deeper into the bushes, some ancient caution making him move stealthily, silently.

  If there was one object on earth which Percy hated with his entire soul it was this dog, Killer. Killer was owned by a big red-necked man who took a savage delight in his dog’s viciousness. Killer had chewed up all the dogs in the area and had frightened most of the children to death. Several times he had chased Percy down the block, and only a frantic lunge behind the gate to his property had saved Percy from losing a mouthful of his trousers. He had complained about it to the dog’s owner—Tom Benton—and had been laughed at for his trouble. Once Killer had chased him down the block and Tom Benton had stood on his porch roaring with delight at the spectacle.

  Now Killer was trotting toward him, and Percy could understand his low, savage growls.

  They said: “I belong here, you don’t. Whoever you are, I’m going to chase you away.”

  “I belong here more than you do,” Percy said. “You’re on my property right now, as a matter of fact.” Percy spoke with indignation, for he knew himself to be in the right; and his meaning was translated into a series of ominous growls.

  KILLER came to a slow halt, and every muscle in his massive frame was quivering with anticipation. He barked once, softly; and it was an invitation to battle.

  Percy felt very little fear of Tom Benton’s dog, and t
hat struck him as odd. He got swiftly to his feet and trotted out of the bushes; and Killer lunged at him with the speed of a lightning bolt.

  But Percy, to his own surprise and delight, moved a great deal faster. He whirled away from Killer’s rush and slashed at his shoulder as the airedale skidded impotently past him. His long curved fangs tore deeply into Killer’s side, and he struck twice more before the other dog could turn again to the fight.

  Killer backed away cautiously, and Percy saw with pride that he stood at least three inches taller at the shoulder than the airedale, and outweighed him by some thirty pounds.

  “Come on and fight,” he said. “You’ve had a fine time chasing the tame puppies who live on the block. Now try it with someone your size.”

  He lunged at Killer, but the once-vicious dog wheeled in fright and scampered across the lawn toward his own house. The last Percy saw of him was his stubby tail disappearing over the fence.

  Percy chuckled to himself and returned to the comparative comfort of the shrubbery. That encounter had done him a world of good, he realized. For years he had wanted to get even with Killer, and now that score was paid in full.

  He put his long jaws between his paws and settled down comfortably. He didn’t know what to do with himself, so he rested quietly, because some instinct was warning him that he might need all his strength in the

  future.

  Finally he fell asleep . . .

  He woke with a start to see the first gray light of dawn breaking behind his house. With a start he scrambled to all fours and peered about; everything was deathly quiet and still. Very well! Confidently he started forward, intending to explore a bit; but he plunged awkwardly to the ground, his face striking the cold damp earth with painful force.

  Groggily, he sat up; and as he did he realized that he was once again wearing his human form. He stared dumbfoundedly at his arms and legs, studying them as if they were weird appendages he had never seen before.

  Well, this was queer, he thought! One minute a wolf, the next a human being. It was enough to make a man neurotic.