A Night in the Lonesome October (15 page)

    
He crawled up onto an old tree stump.
 
I sat down on the ground beside him.

    
"For one thing," I said, "it would interfere in my asking you to do something just now."

    
"What," he said, "is it?"

    
"I want you to come back with me to the crypt and check it out.
 
I want to know whether the Count's still there."

    
He was silent, turning in the sunlight, scales shimmering.

    
"No," he said then.
 
"We don't have to go."

    
"Why not?"

    
"I already know that he's not there."

    
"How do you know this?"

    
"I was out last night," he said, "and I hung myself in a plum tree I'd learned Needle frequents when he feeds.
 
When he came by I said, 'Good evening, Needle.'

    
"'Quicklime, is that you?' he answered.

    
"'Indeed,' I replied, 'and how go your farings?'

    
"'Well.
 
Well,' he said.
 
'And your own twisting ways?'

    
"'Oh, capital,' I answered.
 
'I take it you have come to feed?'

    
"'Yes.
 
I always come here last, for these plums are my favorites and put a fine end to a harvesting of bugs.
 
I prefer saving the best for last.'

    
"'As it should be,' I said, 'with all endeavors.
 
Tell me', for I was wise in these ways now, having lived with Rastov, 'have you ever sampled the long-fallen plums, those which look wrinkled, ruined, and unappetizing?'

    
"'No,' he replied, 'that would be silly, when so many good ones still hang upon the tree.'

    
"'Ah,' I told him, 'but looks may be deceptive, and "good" is certainly a relative term.'

    
"'What do you mean?' he asked.

    
"'I, too, enjoy the fruits,' I said, 'and I have learned their secret.
 
Those over yonder on the ground are far better than those which hang yet upon the limbs.'

    
"'How can that be?' he said.

    
"'The secret is that as they lie there, cut off forever from the source of their existence, they draw upon their remaining life to continue a new kind of growth.
 
True, the effects wither them, but they ferment from their own beings a new and special elixir, superior to the simple juices of those upon the tree.'

    
" They taste a lot better?'

    
"'No.
 
They do not.
 
This goes beyond mere taste.
 
It is a thing of the spirit.'

    
"'I guess I ought to try it, then.'

    
"'You will not be disappointed.
 
I recommend it highly.'

    
"So he descended to the earth, came upon one of those I had indicated, and bit into it.

    
"'Agh!' he exclaimed.
 
'These are no good! Overripe and… '

    
"'Give it a chance,' I said.
 
'Take more, swallow it down, and then some more.
 
Wait just a bit.'

    
"And he sampled again, and again.

    
"A little later, he said, 'I feel slightly dizzy.
 
But it is not unpleasant.
 
In fact...’

    
"He tried another, suddenly more enthusiastic.
 
Then another.

    
"'Quicklime, you were right,' he said after a while.
 
'There is something very special about them.
 
There is a warm feeling...’

    
"'Yes,' I answered.

    
"'And the dizziness is not quite dizziness.
 
It feels good.'

    
"'Take more.
 
Take lots more,' I told him.
 
'Go with it as far as it will take you.'

    
"Shortly, his words grew harder to understand, so that I had to slide down from the tree to be sure I heard everything he said when I began, 'You were with the Count when he created his new graves, were you not. . . ?'

 
   
"And so I learned their locations, and that he was moving to one last night," he finished.

    
"Well done," I said.
 
"Well done."

    
"I hope he didn't awaken feeling the way I did the other morning.
 
I did not linger, for I gather it is a bad thing to see snakes when you are in that condition.
 
At least, Rastov says it is.
 
With me, it was humans that I saw last time, all those passing Gipsies.
 
Then yourself, of course."

    
"How many graves are there besides the crypt?"

    
"Two," he said.
 
"One to the southwest, the other to the southeast."

    
"I want to see them."

    
"I'll take you.
 
The one to the southwest is nearer.
 
Let's go there first."

    
We set out, crossing a stretch of countryside I had not visited before.
 
Eventually, we came to a small graveyard, a rusted iron fence about it.
 
The gate was not secured, and I shouldered it open.

    
"This way," Quicklime said, and I followed him.

    
He led me to a small mausoleum beside a bare willow tree.

    
"In there," he said.
 
"The vault to the right is opened.
 
There is a new casket within."

    
"Is the Count inside it?"

    
"He shouldn't be.
 
Needle said he'd be sleeping at the other one."

    
I entered nevertheless and pawed at the lid for some while before I found a way to open it.
 
When I did, it came up quite easily.
 
It was empty, except for a handful or two of dirt at its bottom.

    
"It looks like the real thing," I said.
 
"Take me to the other one now."

    
We set off on the longer trek, and as we went I asked, "Did Needle tell you when these graves were established?"

    
"Several weeks ago," he answered.

    
"Before the dark of the moon?"

    
"Yes.
 
He was very insistent on the point."

    
"This will ruin my pattern," I said, "and everything seemed such a perfect fit."

 
   
"Sorry."

    
"You're sure that's what he said?"

    
"Positive."

    
"Damn."

    
The sun shone brightly, though there were clouds about, and, of course, a goodly cluster off toward the Good Doctor's place, farther south, and there came a bit of chill with a northerly breeze.
 
We made our way cross-country through the colors of autumn, browns, reds, yellows, and the ground was damp, though not spongy.
 
I inhaled the odors of forest and earth.
 
Smoke curled from a single chimney in the distance, and I thought about the Elder Gods and wondered at how they might change things if the way were opened for their return.
 
The world could be a good place or a nasty place without supernatural intervention; we had worked out our own ways of doing things, defined our own goods and evils.
 
Some gods were great for individual ideals to be aimed at, rather than actual ends to be sought, here and now.
 
As for the Elders, I could see no profit in intercourse with those who transcend utterly.
 
I like to keep all such things in abstract, Platonic realms and not have to concern myself with physical presences. . . . I breathed the smells of woodsmoke, loam, and rotting windfall apples, still morning-rimed, perhaps, in orchard's shade, and saw a high, calling flock V-ing its way to the south.
 
I heard a mole, burrowing beneath my feet. . . .

    
"Does Rastov drink like that every day?" I asked.

    
"No," Quicklime replied.
 
"He only started on Moon-death Eve."

    
"Has Linda Enderby visited him?"

    
"Yes.
 
They had a long talk about poetry and someone named Pushkin."

    
"Do you know whether she got a look at the Alhazred Icon?"

    
"So you know we have it. . . .
 
No, drunk or sober, he wouldn't show it to anybody till the time of its need."