Black Wings Part 4
Andre paused for a few heartbeats only. Then he stepped through the arch, with an odd ceremonial straightness to his posture. He gestured and Ricky followed him, seeing, as he did so, that the aperture was cut through a double metal wall that showed a cross-section of struts between.
They stood on a narrow balcony just within the tank and felt a huge damp breath of the steel-clad lake below them, and gazed into the immense gla.s.s that was to afford them their Revelation of the Power and the Glory. . . .
Andre stared some moments at his reflection, then turned to Ricky. "Now I tell you what it is . . . you say your name was Rocky?"
"Ricky."
"Ricky, now Ima tell you what it is. I came to see, and be seen by Him. When He really sees you, you, you can see through you can see through His His eyes, and you can live His mind." eyes, and you can live His mind."
"But what if I don't want to live his mind?"
"You can't! You didn't pay the toll! You'll see see some s.h.i.t, though! You'll see enough, you'll know that if you got any adventure in your soul, you got to some s.h.i.t, though! You'll see enough, you'll know that if you got any adventure in your soul, you got to pay pay that toll! But that's up to you! Now look, an learn!" that toll! But that's up to you! Now look, an learn!"
He faced the mirror again, and in a cracked voice he cried, "Ia! Ia! Ia fhtagn!"
And the mirror, ever so slightly, contracted, and the faintest circ.u.mference of white showed round its great rim, and encompa.s.sing that ring of pallor, something black and scaly like a sea-beast's hide crinkled into view . . . and Ricky realized that they stood before the pupil of an immense eye.
And Ricky found his feet were rooted, and he could not turn to flee.
And he beheld a dizzying mosaic of lights flashing to life within the mighty pupil. A grand midnight vision crystallized: the whole of San Francis...o...b..y lay within the black orb, bordered by the whole bright oroboros of coastal lights . . . .
He and Andre gazed on the vista, on the Bridges' glittering spines transecting it, all their lengths corpuscled with fleeing lights red and white. The two men gazed on the panorama and it drank their minds. Rooted, they inhabited its grandeur, even as it began a subtle distortion. The vista seemed tugged awry, torqued toward the very center of the giant's pupil. And within that grand, slow distortion, Ricky saw strange movements. Across the Bay Bridge, near its eastern end, the cargo cranes of West Oakland-tracked monsters, each on four mighty legs-raised and bowed their cabled booms in a dinosaurian salute-obeisance, or acclaim . . . while to their left, the giant tanks on Benecia's tarry hills, and the Richmond tanks too in the west, began a ponderous rotation on their bases, a slow spin like planets obeying the pupil's gathering vortex.
Andre cried out, to Ricky, or just to the world he was about to leave, "I see it all coming apart! In detail! Behold!"
This last word reverberated in a brazen ba.s.so far larger than the lean man's lungs could shape. And the knell of that voice awoke winds in the night, and the winds buffeted Ricky as though he hung in the night sky within the eye, and Ricky knew. knew. He knew this being into whose view he'd come! Knew this monster was the King of a vast migration of t.i.tans across the eons of the countless s.p.a.ce-Times! Over the gale-swept universe they moved, these Great Old Ones. Across the cracked continents they trawled, they plundered! Worlds were the pastures that they grazed, and the broken bodies of whole races were the pavement that they trod! He knew this being into whose view he'd come! Knew this monster was the King of a vast migration of t.i.tans across the eons of the countless s.p.a.ce-Times! Over the gale-swept universe they moved, these Great Old Ones. Across the cracked continents they trawled, they plundered! Worlds were the pastures that they grazed, and the broken bodies of whole races were the pavement that they trod!
It astonished him, the threshold to which this Andre, nightwalking zealot, had brought him. He looked at Andre now, saw the man utterly alone at the brink of his apotheosis. How high he seemed to hang in the night winds! Look at the frailty of that skinny frame! The mad greed of his adventure!
Andre seemed to shudder, to gather himself. He looked back at Ricky. He looked like he was seeing in Ricky some foreigner in a far, quaint land, some backward Innocent, unknowing of the very world he stood in.
"On squid, man," he said, ". . . on squid, Ricky, Ricky, you get big! All h.e.l.l breaks loose in the back of your brain, and you can you get big! All h.e.l.l breaks loose in the back of your brain, and you can hold hold it, you can it, you can contain contain it! And then you get to watch Him it! And then you get to watch Him feed. feed. And now And now you'll you'll see. Just a little! Not too much! But you going to see. Just a little! Not too much! But you going to know." know."
Andre turned and faced the eye. He gathered himself, gathered his voice for a great shout: "Here's my witness! Here I come!"
And he vaulted from the balcony, out into the pupil-impacted it for an instant, seemed to freeze in mid-leap as if he had struck gla.s.s-but in the instant after, was within the vast inverted cone of light-starred night, and hung high, tiny but distinct, above the slowly twisting panorama of the great black Bay all shoaled and sh.o.r.ed and spanned with light. That galactic metropolis, round its core of abyss, was-less slowly now-still contorting, twisting toward the center of the pupil . . . .
And Ricky found that he too hung within it, he stood on the wide cold air in the night sky, he felt against his face the winds' slow torque toward the the center of the Old One's sight.
And now all h.e.l.l, with relentless slow acceleration, broke loose. The City's blazing, architected crown began to discohere, brick fleeing brick in perfect pattern, in widening pattern, till they all became pointilist buildings s.n.a.t.c.hed away in the whirlwind, and from the buildings, all the people too like flung seed swirled up into the night, their evaporating arms raised as in horror, or salute, crying out their being from clouding faces that the black winds sucked to tatters . . . .
He saw the great bridges braided with-and crumpling within-barnacle-crusted tentacles as thick as freeway tunnels, saw the freeways themselves-pillared rivers of light-unraveling, their traffic like red and white stars fleeing into the air, into the cyclone of the Great Old One's attention.
And an inward vision was given to Ricky, simultaneous with this meteoric overview. For he also knew the Why of it. He knew the hunger of the nomad t.i.tans, their unappeasable will to consume each bright busy outpost they could find in the universal Black and Cold. Knew that many another world had fled, as this one fled, draining into the maw of the grim cold giants, each world's collapsing roofs and walls bleeding a smoke of souls, all sucked like spume into the mossy curvature of His colossal jaws . . . .
It was perfectly dark. It was almost silent, except for a rattle of leaves. The cold against his face had the wet bite of fog . . . .
Ricky shook his head, and the dark grew imperfect. He put out his hand and touched rough wooden siding. He was alone on the porch, no lantern now, no armchair, no one else. Just dead leaves in crackly little drifts on the floorboards as-slowly and unsteadily-he started across them.
He had seen seen some s.h.i.t. Stone cold sober, he had some s.h.i.t. Stone cold sober, he had seen. seen. And now the question was, who was he? And now the question was, who was he?
He crossed the leaf-starred gra.s.s, on legs that felt increasingly familiar. Yes . . . here was this Ricky-body that he knew, light and quick. And here was his Mustang, blown oak leaves chittering across its polished hood. And still the question was, who was he?
He was this car, for one thing, had worked long to buy it and then to perfect it. He got behind the wheel and fired it up, felt his perfect fit in this machine. Flawlessly it answered to his touch, and the blue beast purred up through the leaf-tunnel as the house-a doorless, gla.s.sless derelict-fell away behind him. But this Ricky Deuce . . . who was he now?
He emerged from the foliage and dove down the winding highway. There was the fog-banked Bay below, the jeweled snake of the Hood glinting within its gray wet shroud, and Ricky took the curves just like his old self, riding one of the hills' great tentacles down, down toward the sea they rooted in . . . .
There was something Ricky had to do. Because in spite of his body, his nerves being his, he didn't know know who he was now, had just had a big chunk torn out of him. And there was something terrible he had to do, to locate, by desperate means, the man he had lost, to find at least a piece of him he was sure of. who he was now, had just had a big chunk torn out of him. And there was something terrible he had to do, to locate, by desperate means, the man he had lost, to find at least a piece of him he was sure of.
His hands and arms knew the way, it seemed. Diving down into the thicker fog, he smoothly threw the turns required . . . and slid up to the curb before the liquor store they'd parked near. . . when? A universe ago. Parked and jumped out.
Ricky was terrified of what he was going to do, and so he moved swiftly to have it done with, just nodding to his recent companions as he hastened into the store-nodding to the Maoris in shades, to the guys with the switchblade cap-bills, to the guys with the crimson hoods and the golden pockets. But rushed though he was, it struck him that they were all looking at him with a kind of fascination . . . .
At the counter he said, "Fifth of Jack." He didn't even look to see what he peeled off his wad to pay for it, but there were a lot of twenties in his change. The Arab bagged him his bottle, his eyes fixed almost raptly on Ricky's, so Ricky was moved to ask in simple curiosity, "Do I look strange?"
"No," the man said, and then said something else, but Ricky had already turned, in haste to get outside where he could take a hit. Had the man said no, not yet? no, not yet?
Ricky got outside, cracked the cap, and hammered back a stiff, two-gurgle jolt.
He scarcely could wait to let it roll down and impact him. He felt the hot collision in his body's center, the roil of potential energy glowing there, then poked down a long, three-gurgle chaser. Stood reeling inwardly, and outwardly showing some impact as well . . . .
And there it was: a heat, a turmoil, a slight numbing. No more. No magic. No rising trumpets. No wheels of light . . . . The halfpint of Jack he'd just downed had no marvel to show like the one he'd just seen.
And so Ricky knew that he was someone else now, someone he had not yet fully met.
"'Sup?" It was the immense guy in the lavender sweats. He had a solemn Toltec-statue face, but an incongruously merry little smile.
"'S happnin," said Ricky. "Hey. You want this?"
"That Jack?"
"Take the rest. Keep it. Here's the cap."
"No thanks." This to the cap. The man drank. As he chugged, he slanted Ricky an eye with something knowing, something I I thought so thought so in it. Ricky just stood watching him. He had no idea at all of what would come next in his life, and for the moment, this bibulous giant was as interesting a thing as any to stand watching . . . . in it. Ricky just stood watching him. He had no idea at all of what would come next in his life, and for the moment, this bibulous giant was as interesting a thing as any to stand watching . . . .
The man smacked his lips. "It ain't the same, is it?" he grinned at Ricky, gesturing the bottle. "It just don't matter any more. I mean, so I understand. understand. I like the glow jus fine myself. But you . . . see, you widdat Andre. You've been a I like the glow jus fine myself. But you . . . see, you widdat Andre. You've been a witness." witness."
"Yeah. I have. So . . . tell me what that means."
"You the one could tell me. Alls I know is I'd I'd never do it, and a whole lotta folks around here never do it, and a whole lotta folks around here they'd they'd never do it-but you didn't know that, did you?" never do it-but you didn't know that, did you?"
"So tell me what it means." means."
"It means what you make of it! And speakin of which, man, of what you might make of it, I wanna show you something right now. May I?"
"Sure. Show me.""Let's step round here to the side of the building . . . just round here . . . " Now they stood in the shadowy weed-tufted parking lot, where others lounged, but moved away when they appeared.
"I'm gonna show you somethin," said the man, drawing out his wallet and opening it.
But opening it for himself at first, for he brought it close to his face as he looked in, and a pleased, proprietary glow seemed to beam from his Olmec features. For a moment, he gloated over the contents of his billfold.
Then he extended and spread the wallet open before Ricky. There was a fat sheaf of bills in it, hand-worn bills with a skinlike crinkle. It seemed the money, here and there, was stained.
Reverently, Olmec said, "I bought this from the guy that capped the guy it came from. This is as pure as it gets. Blood money with the blood right on it! An you can have a bill of it for five hundred dollars! I know know that Andre put way more than that in your hand. I that Andre put way more than that in your hand. I know know you know what a great deal this is!" you know what a great deal this is!"
Ricky. . . had to smile. He saw an opportunity at least to gauge gauge how dangerously he'd erred. "Look here," he told Olmec. "Suppose I did buy blood money. I'd still need a witness. So what about how dangerously he'd erred. "Look here," he told Olmec. "Suppose I did buy blood money. I'd still need a witness. So what about that, that, man? Will man? Will you you be my witness for . . . almost five grand?" be my witness for . . . almost five grand?"
Olmec did let the sum hang in the air for a moment or two, but then said, quite decisively, "Not for twice that."
"So Andre got me cheap?"
"Just by my book. You could buy witnesses round here for half that!"
"I guess I need to think it over."
"You know where I hang. Thanks for the drink."
And Ricky stood there for the longest time, thinking it over. . . .
Pa.s.sing Spirits
Sam Gafford
Sam Gafford grew up on a steady diet of comic books, television, old horror movies, and the fiction of H. P. Lovecraft.Small wonder that he would want to become a writer. Hisstories and essays have appeared in a variety of small-presspublications and magazines. Gafford has also helped to advance the critical study of the fiction of William HopeHodgson. He is working on a novel about Jack the Ripper.
"...*thulhu never existed. Azathoth never existed. Nyarlathotep, Shub-Niggurath, Nug, Yeb, none of them. I made them all up."
I was sitting in H. P. Lovecraft's small study, listening to him rant. It was 1937. In barely under a year he would be dead of stomach cancer. I felt a need to try to tell him this. To let him know that the pain in his abdomen was not just "grippe" but a serious medical problem that he should seek treatment for immediately. When I tried to explain that I knew all about those types of things, he refused to listen and went on ranting.
"But you know what is the worst thing about all of this?" he continued in his nasal voice. "This is what I'll be remembered for. . . if I'm remembered by anyone. For making up a pantheon of monster-G.o.ds. Basically, for stealing from Dunsany."
I tried to explain that that wasn't the truth. That he had added much more to it than just the idea of a cosmic mythology, but he wouldn't listen. It was very strange and not at all the type of conversation I had envisioned having. I wouldn't say that the man was bitter, but he certainly wasn't happy about a lot of things.
Looking at him, I felt that there were so many things that I should be saying but I didn't. My time was too short for that and the memory was already fading.
*hen I awoke, I was in my apartment and there was a ribbon of spit on the pillow next to me. I checked it for blood, but it was clear. My head throbbed as usual and I felt the familiar dull ache behind my eyes. I crawled out of bed and turned the TV on as I dressed. CNN was going on about some flareup in the Middle East (I had long ago stopped caring about such things, there was always a flareup somewhere or other) and I flipped it over to "s...o...b..-Doo" on the Cartoon Network. It was one of my favorites from the first year (the best year before they got into all that guest star nonsense and then brought in Sc.r.a.ppy-Doo- who the h.e.l.l ever thought that was a good idea?) with the s.p.a.ce ghost that had the glowing, laughing head. I remember how that scared the p.i.s.s out of me as a kid. A lot of things scared me back then, before I learned that the only real scary thing in life was stuff like cancer and brain tumors. There weren't any G.o.ds or monsters. Not in the real world. Here we had sickness and disease instead of vampires and ghosts.
I brushed my teeth and took my medicine. Looking at the clock, I had about an hour to get to work, so I knew I'd have enough time. I sat down and watched the rest of the show, waiting for that great "s...o...b..-Doo" ending where they unmask the villain. I always loved that.
*t work, I tried to pretend that I cared about what I was doing, but it didn't really matter. I was just another clerk in just another bookstore. Nothing special. Nothing unique. I had "Help Desk" duty, which everyone knew was the worst. Listening to blue-haired old ladies trying to describe what they wanted. "I don't know the name but I saw it on Oprah. It had a black cover."
The other clerks tried not to look at me too closely. My hair had grown back, more or less, but there's still something about a cancer patient that sets you off from everyone else. Maybe it's a smell or some invisible "early-warning" system, but no one looks at you the same way afterward. That didn't bother me too much. Most of them weren't worth knowing anyway. Weird, trendy people of questionable s.e.xuality. I'd never had much in common with them nor they with me.
Lovecraft's ghost followed me through the reference section, pointing out books with errors in them. I hate it when he does that.
"*he tumor's getting larger," intoned Dr. Lyons with all the seriousness of a hanging judge. He held up two cat scans. "As you can see from the earlier one, it was only about the size of a grape. Now it's getting close to a plum."
I'd never eaten a plum, so had no idea about its size. I figured that it wasn't a good comparison.
"So none of the treatments have done anything?"
Dr. Lyons sighed. "No. The radiation treatments barely seemed to hold its growth. Since we stopped doing those, it's gotten bigger. The medication doesn't seem to be working either. Surgery, although not recommended, is still an option."
"You told me before that it was too dangerous."
"It is. But I don't really see any other way." He got up from behind his desk. "Michael, you have to understand that without surgery this is going to continue to grow."
Apparently I wasn't impressed enough by this.
"Michael, you will die without this operation."
I thought about this. Dying wasn't necessarily the worst thing.
Chemo was certainly on an equal footing. Poverty was right up there too.
"How long?"
"If the tumor continues to grow at this size, maybe four to six months, on the outside. But, Michael, they won't be comfortable months."
He went on to describe how, as the tumor grows, I would begin to lose brain functions. My speech and sight would be affected. My coordination would deteriorate. In short, it would be a living death.
I thanked him and left. Dr. Lyons was confused and followed me out into the hall. He wanted to know why I didn't want to schedule the operation immediately. I looked at him.
"Because I can't afford it." I turned away. He didn't stop me.
*obert E. Howard made a writing career out of stories of strong rugged men who tamed their worlds and bent others to their will. It was a universe of barbarians with strong sword arms and evil sorcerers who plotted magic schemes of conquest. Not once do I recall an REH character dying of cancer or an illness. Of course, that probably would have been too personal a thing considering how his mother died.