The Color of Evil - The Dark Descent V1 (1991)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  thick air in the courtyard, as Beth sank to her knees on the

  ruined flower boxes.

  She was half-conscious, and could not be sure she saw it

  just that way, but up he went, end over end, whirling and

  spinning like a charred leaf.

  And the form took firmer shape. Enormous paws with

  claws and shapes that no animal she had ever seen had ever

  possessed, and the burglar, black, poor, terrified, whimpering like a whipped dog, was stripped of his flesh. His body was opened with a thin incision, and there was a rush as all

  the blood poured from him like a sudden cloudburst, and yet

  he was still alive, twitching with the involuntary horror of a

  frog’s leg shocked with an electric current. Twitched, and

  twitched again as he was tom piece by piece to shreds. Pieces

  of flesh and bone and half a face with an eye blinking furiously, cascaded down past Beth, and hit the cement below with sodden thuds. And still he was alive, as his organs were

  squeezed and musculature and bile and shit and skin were

  rubbed, sandpapered together and let fall. It went on and on,

  as the death of Leona Ciarelli had gone and on, and she

  understood with the blood-knowledge of survivors at any cost

  that the reason the witnesses to the death of Leona Ciarelli

  had done nothing was not that they had been frozen with

  horror, that they didn’t want to get involved, or that they were

  inured to death by years of television slaughter.

  They were worshippers at a black mass the city had demanded be staged; not once, but a thousand times a day in this insane asylum of steel and stone.

  Now she was on her feet, standing half-naked in her ripped

  nightgown, her hands tightening on the wrought-iron railing,

  begging to see more, to drink deeper.

  Now she was one of them, as the pieces of the night’s

  sacrifice fell past her, bleeding and screaming.

  Tomorrow the police would come again, and they would

  question her, and she would say how terrible it had been, that

  burglar, and how she fought, afraid he would rape her and

  kill her, and how he had fallen, and she had no idea how he

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  had been so hideously mangled and ripped apart, but a seven-

  storey fall, after all . . .

  Tomorrow she would not have to worry about walking in

  the streets, because no harm could come to her. Tomorrow

  she could even remove the police lock. Nothing in the city

  could do her any further evil, because she had made the only

  choice. She was now a dweller in the city, now wholly and

  richly a part of it. Now she was taken to the bosom of her

  God.

  She felt Ray beside her, standing beside her, holding her,

  protecting her, his hand on her naked backside, and she

  watched the fog swirl up and fill the courtyard, fill the city,

  fill her eyes and her soul and her heart with its power. As

  Ray’s naked body pressed tightly inside her, she drank deeply

  of the night, knowing whatever voices she heard from this

  moment forward would be the voices not of whipped dogs,

  but those of strong, meat-eating beasts.

  At last she was unafraid, and it was so good, so very good

  not to be afraid.

  “ When inward life dries up, when feeling decreases

  and apathy increases, when one cannot affect or even

  genuinely touch another person, violence flares up as a

  daimonic necessity for contact, a mad drive forcing

  touch in the most direct way possible.’’

  —Roily May, Love and Will

  Nathaniel Hawthorne

  Young Goodman Brown

  Perhaps the original horror in American myth grows out

  of the witchcraft trials in Puritan New England, our own

  regional version of the Spanish Inquisition. Nathaniel

  Hawthorne was the greatest American writer drawn to

  the matter of the Puritans and their moral horrors. It has

  been pointed out that the Puritan sermon, with its hair-

  raising images of hell and damnation, was the characteristic mode of horror literature in the U.S. before the invention of the short story. Hawthorne's awareness of

  horror and its effects underpins one of the great allegories of good and evil, “Young Goodman Brown." The irony that the new world of God's chosen few nurtured

  in its bosom its opposite, devil worship, literally or metaphorically, endures. There is more than a hint of the world of Hawthorne in Stephen King’s “The Reach."

  Young Goodman Brown, came forth at sunset into the

  street at Salem village; but put his head back, after

  crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his

  young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust

  her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with

  the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman

  Brown.

  “ Dearest heart,” whispered she, softly and rather sadly,

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  when her lips were close to his ear, “ prithee put off your

  journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed tonight. A

  lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts

  that she’s afeard of herself sometimes. Pray tarry with me

  this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year.’’

  “ My love and my Faith,” replied young Goodman Brown,

  “ of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away

  from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back

  again, must needs be done ’twixt now and sunrise. What, my

  sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we but

  three months married?”

  “ Then God bless you!” said Faith, with the pink ribbons,

  “ and may you find all well when you come back.”

  “ Amen!” cried Goodman Brown. “ Say thy prayers, dear

  Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to

  thee.”

  So they parted; and the young man pursued his way until,

  being about to turn the comer by the meetinghouse, he looked

  back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him with a

  melancholy air, in spite of her pink ribbons.

  “ Poor little Faith!” thought he, for his heart smote him.

  “ What a wretch am I to leave her on such an errand! She

  talks of dreams, too. Methought as she spoke there was trouble in her face, as if a dream had warned her what work is to be done tonight. But no, no; ’twould kill her to think it.

  Well, she’s a blessed angel on earth; and after this one night

  I ’ll cling to her skirts and follow her to heaven.”

  With this excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown

  felt himself justified in making more haste on his present evil

  purpose. He had taken a dreary road, darkened by all the

  gloomiest trees of the forest, which barely stood aside to let

  the narrow path creep through, and closed immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a solitude, that the traveler knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick

  boughs overhead; so that with lonely footsteps he may yet be

  passing through an unseen multitude.

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  “ There may be a devilish India
n behind every tree," said

  Goodman Brown to himself; and he glanced fearfully behind

  him as he added, “ What if the devil himself should be at my

  very elbow!”

  His head being turned back, he passed a crook of the road,

  and, looking forward again, beheld the figure of a man, in

  grave and decent attire, seated at the foot of an old tree. He

  arose at Goodman Brown’s approach and walked onward side

  by side with him.

  “ You are late, Goodman Brown," said he. “ The clock of

  the Old South was striking as I came through Boston, and

  that is full fifteen minutes agone."

  “ Faith kept me back awhile," replied the young man, with

  a tremor in his voice, caused by die sudden appearance of

  his companion, though not wholly unexpected.

  It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part

  of it where these two were journeying. As nearly as could be

  discerned, the second traveler was about fifty years old, apparently in the same rank of life as Goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance to him, though perhaps

  more in expression than features. Still they might have been

  taken for father and son. And yet, though the elder person

  was as simply clad as the younger, and as simple in manner,

  too, he had an indescribable air of one who knew the world,

  and who would not have felt abashed at the Governor’s dinner

  table or in King William’s court, were it possible that his

  affairs should call him thither. But the only thing about him

  that could be fixed upon as remarkable was his staff, which

  bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought

  that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself like a

  living serpent. This, of course, must have been an ocular

  deception, assisted by the uncertain light.

  “ Come, Goodman Brown,” cried his fellow traveler, “ this

  is a dull pace for the beginning of a journey. Take my staff,

  if you are so soon weary.”

  “ Friend,” said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a

  full stop, “ having kept covenant by meeting thee here, it is

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  my purpose now to return whence I came. I have scruples

  touching the matter thou wot’st of.”

  ‘‘Sayest thou so?” replied he of the serpent, smiling apart.

  “ Let us walk on, nevertheless, reasoning as we go; and if I

  convince thee not, thou shalt turn back. We are but a little

  way in the forest yet.”

  “ Too far! too far!” exclaimed the goodman, unconsciously

  resuming his walk. “ My father never went into the woods

  on such an errand, nor his father before him. We have been

  a race of honest men and good Christians since the days of

  the martyrs; and shall I be the first of the name of Brown

  that ever took this path and kept—”

  “ Such company, thou wouldst say,” observed the elder

  person, interpreting his pause. “ Well said, Goodman Brown!

  I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever

  a one among the Puritans; and that’s no trifle to say. I helped

  your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed die Quaker

  woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I

  that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own

  hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip’s war.

  They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk

  have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake.”

  “ If it be as thou sayest,” replied Goodman Brown, “ I

  marvel they never spoke of these matters; or, verily, I marvel

  not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven

  them from New England. We are a people of prayer, and

  good works to boot, and abide no such wickedness.”

  “ Wickedness or not,” said the traveler with the twisted

  staff, “ I have a very general acquaintance here in New England. The deacons of many a church have drunk the communion wine with me; the selectmen of divers towns make me their chairman; and a majority of the Great and General

  Court are firm supporters of my interest. The Governor and

  I, too—But these are state secrets.”

  “ Can this be so?” cried Goodman Brown, with a stare of

  amazement at his undisturbed companion. “ Howbeit, I have

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  nothing to do with the Governor and council; they have their

  own ways, and are no rule for a simple husbandman like me.

  But, were I to go on with thee, how should I meet the eye of

  that good old man, our minister, at Salem village? Oh, his

  voice would make me tremble both Sabbath day and lecture

  day.”

  Thus far the elder traveler had listened with due gravity;

  but now burst into a fit of irrepressible mirth, shaking himself

  so violently that his snakelike staff actually seemed to wriggle

  in sympathy.

  ‘‘Ha! ha! ha!” shouted he again and again; then composing himself, ‘‘Well, go on, Goodman Brown, go on; but, prithee, don’t kill me with laughing.”

  “ Well, then, to end the matter at once,” said Goodman

  Brown, considerably nettled, “ there is my wife, Faith. It

  would break her dear little heart; and I ’d rather break my

  own.”

  “ Nay, if that be the case,” answered the other, “ e’en go

  thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not for twenty old

  women like die one hobbling before us that Faith should come

  to any harm.”

  As he spoke, he pointed his staff at a female figure on the

  path, in whom Goodman Brown recognized a very pious and

  exemplary dame, who had taught him his catechism in youth,

  and was still his moral and spiritual adviser, joindy with the

  minister and Deacon Gookin.

  “ A marvel, truly, that Goody Cloyse should be so far in

  the wilderness at nightfall,” said he. “ But with your leave,

  friend, I shall take a cut through the woods until we have left

  this Christian woman behind. Being a stranger to you, she

  might ask whom I was consorting with and whither I was

  going.”

  “ Be it so ,” said his fellow traveler. “ Betake you to the

  woods, and let me keep the path.”

  Accordingly, the young man turned aside, but took care to

  watch his companion, who advanced sofdy along the road

  until he had come within a staff’s length of the old dame.

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  203

  She, meanwhile, was making the best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some indistinct words—a prayer, doubtless—as she went. The traveler put forth his staff and touched her withered neck with what

  seemed the serpent’s tail.

  “ The devil!” screamed the pious old lady.

  “ Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?” observed the

  traveler, confronting her and leaning on his writhing stick.

  “ Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship indeed?” cried the

  good dame. “ Yea, truly is it, and in the very image of my

  old gossip Goodman Brown, the grandfather of the silly fellow that now is. But—would your worship beli
eve it?—my broomstick hath strangely disappeared, stolen, as I suspect,

  by that unhanged witch, Goody Cory, and that, too, when I

  was all anointed with the juice of smallage, and cinquefoil,

  and wolfsbane—”

  “ Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a newborn babe,”

  said the shape of old Goodman Brown.

  “ Ah, your worship knows the recipe,” cried the old lady,

  cackling aloud. “ So, as I was saying, being all ready for the

  meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot

  it; for they tell me there is a nice young man to be taken into

  communion tonight. But now your good worship will lend

  me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling.”

  “ That can hardly b e,” answered her friend. “ I may not

  spare you my arm, Goody Cloyse; but here is my staff, if

  you will.”

  So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it

  assumed life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to the Egyptian magi. Of this fact, however, Goodman Brown could not take cognizance. He had cast up

  his eyes in astonishment, and, looking down again, beheld

  neither Goody Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his fellow

  traveler alone, who waited for him as calmly as if nothing

  had happened.

  “ That old woman taught me my catechism,” said the

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  young man; and there was a world of meaning in this simple

  comment.

  They continued to walk onward, while the elder traveler

  exhorted his companion to make good speed and persevere

  in the path, discoursing so aptly that his arguments seemed

  rather to spring up in the bosom of his auditor than to be

  suggested by himself. As they went, he plucked a branch of

  maple to serve for a walking stick, and began to strip it of

  the twigs and little boughs, which were wet with evening

  dew. The moment his fingers touched them, they became

  strangely withered and dried up as with a week’s sunshine.

  Thus the pair proceeded, at a good free pace, until suddenly,

  in a gloomy hollow of the road, Goodman Brown sat himself

  down on the stump of a tree and refused to go any farther.

  “ Friend,” said he, stubbornly, “ my mind is made up. Not

  another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched

  old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she