Quests of Simon Ark (4 page)

This is the story of Douglas Zadig’s last day on earth, and of the people who were with him when he died …

It was a cold, bleak Friday afternoon in early November when Simon Ark called me at my office. I was in the midst of checking some final galley proofs for our January books, but I tossed them aside when I recognized his voice on the line. “Simon! How’ve you been?”

“Busy,” he replied. “How would you like to go up to Maine for the weekend?”

“Maine? In November? Nobody goes up there except hunters this time of year.”

“Hunters and publishers,” Simon Ark corrected; “I want to see a man, and since he’s a writer of sorts, I thought it might be good to take you along. That is, if you’re free …”

I’d learned long ago that an invitation from Simon Ark was never as casual as it sounded. If he was going up to Maine for the weekend, there was a reason for it, and I wanted to be with him. “I’m free,” I said. “When should I meet you?”

“Can you be at Grand Central at six? We’ll take the New Haven part of the way.”

“I’ll be there. At the information booth …”

I called my wife after that, explaining the reason for my sudden trip. She knew Simon Ark almost as well as I did, and she was one of the few people in this world who understood. She said goodbye to me with that little catch in her breath that told me she’d be waiting for whatever adventures I had to relate upon my return.

And then I was off, on a weekend I was never to forget …

I’d first met Simon Ark years before, when I was still a newspaper reporter; and though I’d lost track of him for several years, he’d turned up again recently to renew our friendship. He was an odd man by any standards, a tall, heavy-set figure with an expression that was at times saintly.

My experiences with him in the past, together with the tales he’d related to me over a beer or a glass of wine, told me that he was someone not really of our world at all. He belonged to the world of the past—to the world of the supernatural, perhaps, but certainly not to the world of twentieth century America.

He was a man who was searching, searching for what he called the Ultimate Evil, the devil himself. I’d laughed at first, or thought possibly that he was a little crazy; but I didn’t laugh any more, and I knew that if anything he was the sanest man in the world. He found evil everywhere, because there was evil everywhere, and I knew that someday he would have his wish; someday he would confront Satan himself.

That was why I always went with him when he asked. He’d been searching for a long time, and the meeting might never take place in my lifetime; but if it did I wanted to be there, too.

So that was why I was with him as the train rumbled north toward New England that night. “What’s it all about this time, Simon?” I asked finally, when no information was forthcoming.

He gazed out the train window, almost as if he could see something in the darkness besides the irregular patterns of light from buildings and roads.

Presently he asked, “Did you ever hear of a man called Douglas Zadig?”

The name seemed somehow familiar, but I had to shake my head. “Who is he?”

“He is a man from nowhere, a man without family or country, a man without a past. You may have read about him some ten years ago, when he walked out of an English mist one night to become an overnight sensation.”

“I remember now,” I said. “He was a youth of about twenty at the time, and he claimed to have no memory of his past life. He spoke English very poorly, and his clothes were almost rags. The only thing he remembered was that his first name was Douglas. When they found him, he was carrying a worn French copy of Voltaire’s novel, Zadig, so the newspapers named him Douglas Zadig.”

“You have a good memory for details,” Simon Ark said. “As you probably remember, this Douglas Zadig has remained a complete mystery. His fingerprints were not on file anywhere in the world; his picture has never been identified by anyone. He is simply a man without a past.”

“I lost track of him a few years back, though,” I told Simon. “What’s he been doing recently?”

“I ran into him a few years ago in London,” Simon Ark continued. “I was in England to investigate an odd happening in Devonshire, and I happened to hear him speaking at a sort of rally. He’s become quite a writer and speaker in some circles—a sort of prophet, I suppose you’d call him.”

“Is this the man we’re going up to Maine to see?”

“Quite correct. He came to this country with an American doctor two years ago. The doctor—a man named Adam Hager—has actually adopted him as a son, and the two of them are living in Maine.”

“Odd, but hardly in your field of investigation, is it, Simon?”

The train rumbled on through the small New England towns, along the dark waiting waters of Long Island Sound. Around us, people were drifting into sleep, and the seat lights were being dimmed.

Simon Ark took a slim volume from his pocket and held it out for my examination. I glanced at the cover and saw that the unlikely title was, On
the Eternal War Between the Forces of Good and the Forces of Evil.
The author was Douglas Zadig.

“So?” I questioned.

Simon Ark returned the book to his pocket. “The odd thing about this book—as with all of Douglas Zadig’s writings and speeches—is that his apparently new philosophy is actually lifted almost word for word from the teachings of a religious leader named Zoroaster, who lived seven centuries before Christ …”

It took us until Saturday noon to reach our destination, a small town called Katahdin in the northern part of the state. It was cold up here, and a fresh layer of snow already covered the ground. All around us were mountains and lakes and forests, and it seemed impossible that such a place could be only a single night’s journey from New York.

There was a small hotel of sorts, where we left what few belongings we’d brought along. It was all but empty now, but in another week I imagined it would be full of sportsmen up from Bangor and Boston.

“You fellows hunters?” the room clerk asked us. “Little early in the season for good hunting.”

“We’re hunters of a very special type of game,” Simon Ark replied. “Can you direct us to the house of Doctor Hager?”

“Sure; it’s right at the edge of town, where the road turns. Big white place. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

The house of Doctor Hager was indeed easy to find; and from the look of the barren white fields that surrounded it, I guessed that someone had once tried farming the land.

Doctor Hager himself was average in almost every respect. He might have been a typical country doctor, but he might just as well have been a big city businessman. There was a look of shrewdness about his eyes that contrasted with the weak smile that seemed always on his lips.

Simon Ark explained that we were from a New York publishing company, and had come up to speak with Douglas Zadig about the possibility of doing one of his books.

“Come in, by all means,” Doctor Hager urged us. “I’m sure Douglas will be happy to speak with you. There are so many people interested in his work …”

The house was even larger than it had seemed from outside, and we saw at once that we were not the only visitors. A handsome young woman of perhaps thirty, and an older man with thin, drawn features were sitting in the-living room.

Doctor Hager took charge of the introductions, and I learned that the woman was a Mrs. Eve Brent, from Chicago. The older man was Charles Kingsley, and I recognized him as a retired manufacturer, whose name was prominent in financial circles.

“These are some New York publishers,” Doctor Hager announced proudly, “who have come all the way up here to talk with Douglas.” Then, turning to us, he explained, “Our house here is always open to visitors. Mrs. Brent and Mr. Kingsley are staying with us for a few weeks to try and find themselves spiritually.”

I had taken the chair next to Mrs. Brent, and I asked her where Douglas Zadig was, just to get the conversation started.

“He’s upstairs in his room; I think he’ll be down shortly.”

“You’re a long way from Chicago, aren’t you?” I asked.

“My … my husband died a few years back. Since then, I’ve just been at loose ends, traveling to Europe and South America; it wasn’t until I read one of Douglas Zadig’s books that I found myself again.”

I saw that Simon was busy talking with Hager and Mr. Kingsley. But all conversation stopped with the sudden entrance of a thin young man whom I knew to be Douglas Zadig.

He was taller than I’d supposed, with gaunt, pointed features of the type that stayed in your memory. There was a slight limp to his walk, and I remembered reading now that he’d had the limp when he first appeared, more than ten years ago in England.

“I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized, in a rich full voice, with barely a trace of English accent. “But it happened again.”

Whatever it was that had “happened” was enough to bring gasps from the Doctor and the two guests. Hager rushed to Douglas Zadig’s side and quickly examined his head.

“The same side as before, Adam,” the young man said. “I was shaving, when suddenly I felt this blow on the temple; there’s not much blood this time, though.”

“The skin is broken, though,” Doctor Hager said. “Just like the other time.”

Simon Ark arose from his chair and went forward to examine the young man. “Just what is the trouble here?” he asked, addressing the question to the four of them.

It was Mrs. Brent at my side who answered. “Douglas has been the victim of two mysterious attacks, both while he was alone in his room. We … we think it might be the … the devil…”

I saw Simon Ark’s quiet eyes come alive at the word, and I knew that in some mysterious way he’d come into conflict again with the Evil he eternally sought. From outside, a slight wind stirred the barren trees; and through the window I could see a brief gust of snow eddy up into the air.

Charles Kingsley snorted and took out a cigar. “This whole business is nonsense. We’re not living in the Middle Ages anymore; the devil doesn’t come around attacking people.”

“I fear you’re quite wrong.” Simon Ark spoke quietly. “Satan is just as real today as he was a thousand years ago; and there’s no reason to suppose that his tactics have changed any in that time. If I were more certain he was among us, in fact, I’d suggest a rite of exorcism.”

“We’d need a priest for that,” Mrs. Brent said; “there isn’t one within miles of here.”

Simon Ark shook his head. “In the early days of Christianity, it was quite common for lay persons to exorcise the devil. But I would not want to attempt it under the present circumstances.”

Douglas Zadig spoke from the doorway, where he’d remained during Simon Ark’s brief examination. “Just what do you mean by that, sir? You talk oddly for a book publisher.”

“I have other professions. I refer to the peculiar doctrine you preach as to the eternal war between the two great forces of good and evil. It reminds one somewhat of the teachings of Zoroaster.”

The young man seemed to pale slightly at the name “I … I have read about his doctrines, of course. But if you’d completed your study of my teachings and published works, I think you’d find that my theory of evil holds that, as a force, it is a part of God, and is willed by Him—not that it is a separate and distinct power.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Zadig,” Simon Ark said with almost a chuckle, “Thomas Aquinas disproved that idea seven hundred years ago. In case you’re not familiar with it, I refer you to chapters 39 and 95 in Book One of his
Summa Contra Gentiles.
For a preacher of a new religion, you seem to be quite confused as to your own doctrine.”

Douglas Zadig turned on him with blazing eyes. “I need not listen to these insults in my own house,” he said, and turned from the room. Doctor Hager ran after him and followed him onto the front porch.

Kingsley and Mrs. Brent seemed shocked at Simon Ark’s tactics; I walked over close enough to speak to him without their hearing us. “Perhaps you were a little hard on the fellow, Simon; I’m sure he means no harm.”

“Whether he
means
harm or not, the fact remains that false teachings like that can always cause harm.”

Doctor Hager returned to us then, and through the window we could see Douglas Zadig walking off across a snow-covered field, his open jacket flapping in the breeze. “He’s gone for a walk,” the doctor informed us; “he wants to be alone with his thoughts.”

Simon Ark walked to the window and watched him until he was out of sight over a hill of snow.

“Really,” Mrs. Brent said, “I think you owe him an apology when he returns. In his own way, he’s a great man.”

Simon Ark turned from the window and faced the four of us. “Have any of you ever heard the story of Kaspar Hauser?” he asked quietly. And when he saw our blank expressions, he went on, “Kaspar Hauser was a German youth of about sixteen, who appeared suddenly in Nuremberg in May of 1828. He was dressed as a peasant, and seemed to remember nothing of his past life. In his possession were found two letters, supposedly written by the boy’s mother and his guardian. A professor in Nuremberg undertook his education, and he remained there and in Ansbach until his death in 1833. Twice before his death, while he was living with the professor, he suffered mysterious wounds; and his death from a stab wound while he was walking in a park during the winter has never been explained.”

Doctor Hager spoke from between tightened lips. “Just what are you driving at?”

“I am suggesting that Douglas Zadig’s life, his appearance out of nowhere in England ten years ago, his friendship with you, Doctor, and even the two odd wounds he has recently suffered, follow very closely the life of Kaspar Hauser.”

Mrs. Brent was still beside me, and her fingers dug unconsciously into my arm. “Perhaps you’re right. What does that prove?”

“Don’t any of you see it?” Simon Ark asked. “This man we all know as Douglas Zadig has no life of his own. Everything he has done and said has been done and said before in this world. He bears the name of a fictional character from French literature; he teaches a doctrine of a man dead nearly three thousand years, and he lives the life of a man from the nineteenth century. I don’t propose to explain it—I am only stating the facts …”