Castle Dreams (20 page)

“Just espresso."

“How about a pastry to go with that, sir?"

“You have cannoli?"

“Plain or chocolate?"

“By ‘plain' I hope you mean vanilla."

“Yes, sir, I mean vanilla, sir."

“With the dark chocolate chips, right?"

“Yes, sir!"

“Just the chips, none of the candied fruit nonsense."

“Sir, I would say that these are your purist's cannoli, sir."

“Fine, bring me one. After dinner."

“What will you be eating for dinner, sir?"

“What d'you have?"

“Milk-fed veal, sir."

“Well, wring some out and bring me a glass."

“That's not very original, sir."

“I'm still waiting for that coffee, Telly! The longer I wait, the fouler the weather to come!"

“Aye, aye, sir!"

Telly left the bridge and the skipper to his thoughts.

He had none. He couldn't think, he could only go through this dumb show, this pretense, this playacting ... this—?

Yes, what the hell was it? Where was he? Why couldn't he remember anything? He was tired of all this.

Perhaps he
was
starting to remember.

He scanned the sky. That remark about bad weather had been prescient. He saw flashes, then heard far-off thunder.

“Storm off the starboard beam!"

"Tekeli-li!"
the albatross cried.

The storm-blast came and whipped the sea to a frenzy. Whitecaps rose like ice-cream cones and white foam curdled and clotted across the face of the deep. The ship rocked in its cradle of the ocean. Mist gathered and snow fell, and it grew wondrous cold. Icebergs, mast-high, floated by.

Saint Elmo's fire blazed on the masthead and about the rigging.

“Nice touch."

“Coffee, sir!"

He took the coffee. “Well, it's about time. Pretty storm, eh? What's it all about, Telly?"

“What are storms usually about, skipper?"

“Oh, I dunno. About nature, the elements. Life. About man and woman, birth, death and infinity. And like that. Did you put Sweet ‘N Low in this?"

“Sir, our sugar stores are way down."

“We just put out!"

“Sorry, everything's wet down in the galley. We're shipping water."

“Well, next time send it Federal Express. God, this is awful. I hate diet soda, too. Leaves an aftertaste. Know what I mean?"

“I do, sir, but I have a weight problem."

“Are you kidding? Why you're as svelte as a mackerel. Look at this gut."

"Tekeli-li!"
the albatross screamed as it wheeled in the stormy sky.

“I wish that frigging bird would shut up."

“It's an omen, sir."

“Omen of what?"

“Can be a good omen, sir; can be a bad omen."

“Well, what species is that critter?"

“I'd say pretty bad, sir."

“
Tekeli-li!"

“I'll give you ‘Tekeli-li,' you mangy bird. Telly, fetch my Hawken .50 caliber from the ordnance locker."

“Sir, but—!"

“No buts.
Tout de suite.
"

Telemachus fetched it
tout de suite
.

“Hey, he's gonna shoot the albatross!"

Telly's announcement was met by wailing and moaning among the crew.

“Forbear, Cap'n! Don't do it!"

“Oh, why not,” the skipper chided. “It's just a damned bit of wildfowl."

“I fear thee, Ancient Mariner!"

He took aim and fired. A puff of feathers bloomed in the dark sky.

Presently, something thudded against the deck. And there it lay on the glistening boards, still and bloodied.

“That's no albatross! You! What's-your-name!"

“Morry, sir."

“Morry, take a look at that thing."

“I'm looking at it, sir."

“What is it?"

“It's a chicken."

“A goddamned
chicken?
"

“Yes, sir."

He turned to Telly. “So, what the hell is this?"

“I don't know, sir. You shouldn't have shot it."

“What the hell's a chicken doing out here?"

“Er ... chicken of the sea?"

He raised the rifle. “That's two."

Telly ran from the bridge.

The skipper noticed that the ship had grown a bit bigger; it was now, in fact, a three-masted schooner.

“Or perhaps a salmon packet,” he mused.
¹

[
^1.
Your guess is as good as mine.]

Anyway, the
Perilous
was now a full-fledged sailing vessel, and he speculated that this transformation was meant to appease him in some way. Perhaps his complaints had been heard.

Didn't make a damn bit of difference. He was fairly sure he didn't want any part of this.

The wind blew out of the clouds, and the clouds—noctilucent, almost ectoplasmic—raced by like spirits. Rain pelted the deck and beat against the sails while the wind whipped them about.

“And I'm really getting tired of the footnotes, too!” he shouted.
²

[
^2.
This is a self-referential textual allusion, a device much favored by “postmodernist” writers. This is by far the cleverest touch in the book; but it is by no means original.]

 

The storm was putting on quite a show. Too good a show, in fact. The ship bobbed liked a cork.

He lashed himself to the helm. Then he lashed himself to the mast. When none of that worked, he lashed Telly.

“Hey, what the hell are you lashing me for, Cap'n?"

“You're handy."

“Put down that lash!"

“Sorry I flared. Look, this has got to stop."

“What's got to stop?"

“This sham, this entire bamboozle."

“Are you insinuating that this is all some sort of put-on?"

“That is exactly what I am insinuating. Look."

He raised his hands against the storm.

In an instant, the sea calmed, the wind subsided, and part of the backdrop fell over to reveal a brick wall.

“See?"

“Aw, you're no fun."

“Now, what kind of afterlife d'you call that?"

Telly raised his hands apologetically. “It's the best we can do."

“Well, it's not good enough. I'm jumping ship."

“What? You can't do that."

“Why not? I refuse to go through with this nonsense."

“But, you must. You're dead, and you have to have an afterlife."

“I may be dead, but I'll be damned if I'll have an afterlife. I mean, what's the point? Is there an afterlife after the afterlife?"

“No."

“Why not? Seems to me you could just go on and on. Pointless. Why not let it end? Give it a rest. When it's over it's over."

“But you don't understand."

“Oh, I think I do. By the way, I remember my name."

“Oh, that's nice. What is it?"

“I'm Ed McMahon. You may already be a winner."
³

[
^3.
If Ed McMahon has written any poetry, it is to date unpublished, although rumors abound that there exists a holograph manuscript of something called
The “Heerrrrre's Johnny!” Cantos.
By the way, this is the last footnote. I'd like to extend a thank-you to the footnote staff for a job well done. Nice work, people.]

“Seriously..."

“I'm serious! I'm checking out."

“You can't."

“I'm cashing in my chips. I'm vacating the premises. I'm history. I am one with Nineveh and Tyre."

“I take it you mean this."

He went to the rail, climbed up on it and stood regarding the “deep.” It was more or less a swimming pool backed by a lighted cyclorama, as in a TV or film studio.

“I don't even believe this,” he said, scowling.

The studio, too, faded away. All that was left was the ship, adrift in a gray void, an indeterminate nothingness.

“Telemachus” was still there. He said, “You'll drift alone, forever, through eternity."

“Better that than this charade."

“You might change your mind,” came the warning. “But then it will be too late, Ed."

“Let me worry about that. By the way, my name is Incarnadine."

He jumped from the rail.

And fell ... and fell ... and fell...

 

 

 

 

MALNOVIA

 

The house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac off a side street in the middle-class section of the city. It wasn't a bad house. Big oak beams alternated with off-white stucco, steep gables topping it all off. Otherwise undistinguished. It was a quiet little lane; a mews, really; an alley.

But it was definitely the source of the spookiness.

Trent stood at the corner and checked things out. This was a very tranquil location, tucked away from the bustle of the city yet right in the heart of things. Perfect neighborhood for a little
pied-à-terre.
For trysts. Afternoon assignations. A sordid affair or two.

He walked down the lane, checking each house as he passed. Discreet neighbors; keep to themselves. Never gossip. Oh, no.

Even a pleasant tree or two at the curb; beeches. Some shrubbery. Clean sidewalk. Very nice indeed.

He stopped in front of the pseudo-Tudor affair and stood arms akimbo, casing the joint. Rather narrow. Nice windows. Oops, one cracked, there. The place could use a coat of whitewash. Or maybe a warm earth-tone—buff, beige, whatever. Be daring—puce.

The door was one step up from the sidewalk. Again, coated with what looked like black lacquer. This one had a knob and a bronze knocker, though.

He tried the knocker and waited.

“Read your meter!” he called.

He tried the knob. It turned. The door opened.

“Well, now."

He went in and shut the door. Inside was a vestibule with a coat rack and a tall mirror. He passed through this and entered a hallway that continued past a stairway to a distant kitchen. The top of the stairs was dark. To the right lay the parlor, and this he decided to explore first.

The room was dark and stuffy, chock full of curios and bric-a-brac: stuffed birds; statuary of low-brow taste favoring the theme of mythical animals; horological charts and other posters featuring things astrological; a chart on the science of metoposcopy, showing the salient features of the human visage, especially the lines of the forehead; many incense burners—in fact the place was redolent of sandalwood—hundreds of decorative candles, many of them black; a number of pieces of primitive art, medicine masks and such; an ancient mummy case, standing in a corner; innumerable pentacles and mystical signs; decorated cups and chalices and bowls having a ceremonial look about them; more candles; more pentacles; more paraphernalia associated with a wide variety of occult disciplines: phrenology, cheiromancy, cartomancy, alchemy, and on and on.

The place reeked of magic. Cheap magic.

He rolled back a wooden door and walked into a dining area usurped by more quaint clutter.

The kitchen was a mess.

He came down the hall to the foot of the stairs and listened. Faint music.

As he mounted the staircase he recognized the piece: the “Moonlight” sonata, in C-sharp minor. Good spooky tune.

Something was coalescing at the top of the stairs. At least, something was trying to come together. He stopped to let it.

The thing finally materialized. Another demon, rather haphazardly formed. Botched around the legs. It was properly scaled and fanged, though, and looked fearsome enough.

Demon and human locked eyes for a moment.

The demon said, “You're violating private property."

“The real estate agent said to go right in."

“Oh ... huh?"

“Actually, I'm selling Girl Scout cookies. You want S'mores?"

“Don't toy with me!"

The demon made swiping motions with sharp claws and snapped its crooked yellow teeth.

Trent observed, arms folded.

The demon presently ceased these blandishments. It stared vacantly.

Trent said loudly, “Well?"

The thing raised its arms in a gesture of exasperated hopelessness. “Oh,
shit
! Forget it! Forget I said anything! Excuse me, I'll just go back to my needlepoint."

It stalked off, grumbling its disgust. A door slammed.

Trent chuckled as he went up the steps.

There were three bedrooms. He didn't bother with the one the demon had entered. The one at the top of the stairs was stuffed with crates and boxes. That left the front bedroom.

This door was locked.

He tried a spell and got the lock unlocked all right, but he sensed a redundancy of chains and latches and deadbolts and such on the other side. Deciding to drop subtlety, he blew the son-of-a-bitching thing in with a moderate blast.

The door became a puff of sawdust mixed with plaster dust from sections of wall. When the dust settled, he walked in.

And there, in a room full of books, sitting at a large circular table, was a man in black robes and conical hat, playing solitaire. He was middle-aged with mutton-chop sideburns and thick black-framed glasses. He looked up with a cheery, confident smile, showing small feral teeth.

“Glad you could come. Prince Trent, I presume."

“The same,” Trent answered. “What goes on here?"

The man chuckled. “You know, you
did
break into my house. I really should protest."

“Your front door was open. Now, this is an interesting device."

He referred to what lay in the middle of the table. It was an oblong block of some transparent substance—not glass; most likely Plexiglas. Embedded inside it was a miniature figure, a doll. The block had been positioned in the middle of a very primitive-looking pentacle carved into the wood of the circular table.

Trent bent to peer at the figure. It was a good likeness.

“What the heck is this?” Trent studied the patterns. “Don't tell me it's ... voodoo?"

The man chuckled again. “You got it."

Trent straightened, pushed back his plumed hat and laughed. “Well, I'll be damned. You blind-sided Inky with a zombie spell?"

“Sometimes the simplest approach works best. I like primitive magic. It works well against sophisticates. As you said, ‘blind-sided.'”