The manitou (25 page)
The glowing
grid of Unitrak’s manitou dimmed and flickered for a moment, but then it burned
brighter still – a searing blast of technological power that blotted out all
vision and all sound. I felt as if I had been plunged into a cauldron of molten
steel, drowned in light and swamped in noise.
I heard one
thing more. It was a sound that I can never forget. It was like someone or
something shrieking in intense agony, on and on for longer than I could bear
it. It was the sound of nerves being stripped bare, sensitivities being slit
apart, spirits being carved naked. It was the Great Old One. Its grip on the
material world was being scorched away by Unitrak’s limitless and sophisticated
power. It was being driven back by the holy fire of today’s technology to the
dim and dismal haunts of the ancient astral planes.
There was a
rippling, bubbling, babbling noise, and the sides of the gateway that
Misquamacus had marked on the floor began to draw in toward their center,
sucking the shadowy shape of the Great Old One like a ventilation pipe sucking
in smoke. There was one final extravagant burst of power that left me dazzled
and temporarily blinded, and then the room was silent.
I lay there,
unable to move, unable to see, for five or ten minutes. When I was able to
struggle up to my feet, there were still green grid shapes floating on my
retina, and I had to shuffle around like an old man, bumping into walls and
furniture.
At last, my
vision cleared. Not far away, Singing Rock lay on the floor amidst the debris
of beds and broken furniture, his eyes flickering open as he gradually returned
to consciousness. The body of Misquamacus lay where it had fallen, hunched and
burnt. The walls of the room looked as if they had been seared by flame, and
the plastic venetian blinds were melted into long drooping strings.
It wasn’t any
of these things that transfixed me, however. It was the pale, slender figure
who stood silently in the corner of the room – wan and white like a ghost of
someone I once knew. I said nothing at all, but simply held out my hands to her
– making her welcome back to an existence that she nearly lost forever.
“Harry,” she
whispered. “I’m alive, Harry.”
And it was then
that Lieutenant Marino, his gun drawn, came bursting through the door to find
us.
I sat with
Singing Rock at La Guardia, under the massive bronze bust of La Guardia
himself, having a last cigarette before he caught his flight. He looked as neat
and tidy as ever, with his shiny suit and his horn-rim glasses, and there was
nothing to show what he had done, or what he had been through, except for a
band-aid across his cheek.
We heard jets
taxi down the runways outside, and the murmur of voices, and the late afternoon
sun glowed orange in a wintry sky.
“I feel a
little sad, in some ways,” he said.
“Sad?” I asked
him.
“What about?”
“About Misquamacus.
If only we’d had a chance to explain to
him what had happened. If only we could have communicated with him.”
I took a long
drag at my cigarette. “It’s a little late for that now. And remember that he
would have killed us, just as surely and quickly as we needed to kill him.”
Singing Rock
nodded. “Perhaps we shall meet him again, in better circumstances. Then maybe
we could talk.”
I said: “He’s
dead – isn’t he? What do you mean – meet him again?”
Singing Rock
took his eyeglasses off his nose and wiped them with a clean white
handkerchief.
“The body died,
but we can’t be sure that the manitou was destroyed. Maybe it was released on
to a higher plane, and is ready to join those who exist without any physical
presence at all. Maybe it will come back to earth, and live again in someone
else’s body.”
I frowned.
“You’re not saying that this could happen again?”
Singing Rock
shrugged. “Who knows? There are many mysteries in the universe that we know
nothing about at all. What we see during our physical life on earth is simply a
fragment. There are strange worlds within worlds, and stranger worlds within
those worlds. It would pay us not to forget that.”
“And the Great Old One?”
Singing Rock
collected his bag and stood up. “The Great Old One,” he said, “will always be
among us.
For as long as there are dark nights and
inexplicable fears, the Great Old One will always be there.”
That was all he
said. He took my hand, and squeezed it, and then went off to catch his flight.
It was nearly
three weeks later before I was able to get out to New England. I drove all the
way, and the fields and the houses were still blanketed with snow. The sky was
the color of gum, and an orange sun hid wanly behind the trees.
I arrived just
before dusk, and pulled my Cougar up in front of the elegant white painted
colonial house and climbed out. The front door opened, and there was Jeremy
Tandy, as dry and spry as ever, coming out to greet me and take my bags.
“We’re so
pleased you could make it, Mr. Erskine,” he said, as warmly as he knew how.
“You must have had a cold trip.”
I wiped my feet
on the doormat. “It wasn’t so bad. I enjoy adverse conditions.”
Inside, Mrs.
Tandy took my coat, and it was warm and firelit and cheerful. The long sitting
room was crowded with homely antiques – big colonial easy chairs and sofas,
brass lamps, and plenty of ornaments and pictures of rural scenes.
“Would you care
for some hot chowder?” asked Mrs. Tandy, and I could have kissed her.
I sat down in
front of the fire. Jeremy Tandy poured me a large whiskey while his wife busied
herself in the kitchen.
“How’s Karen?”
I asked him. “Is she still improving?”
Jeremy Tandy
nodded. “She can’t walk yet, but she’s putting on weight and she’s much more
cheerful. You can go up and see her later. She’s been looking forward to this
visit all week.”
I sipped
whiskey. “So have I,” I said, a little tiredly. “I haven’t been sleeping too
well since this thing was over.”
Jeremy Tandy
lowered his head. “Well – no – none of us have.”
We made small
talk for a while, and then Mrs. Tandy brought me the chowder. It was good and
hot and thick, and I sat by the crackling fire and ate it gratefully.
Later, I went
upstairs to see Karen. She was peaky and pale, but her father was right. She
was putting on weight, and she was going to recover. I sat on the end of her
country-quilted walnut bed, and we talked about her hobbies, and her future,
and everything in the world except Misquamacus.
“Dr. Hughes
told me, privately, that you were very brave,” she said after a while. “He says
that what really happened was nothing like the newspaper stories at all. He
said that nobody would have believed them if they’d told the truth.”
I took her
hand. “The truth isn’t very important. I can’t really believe the truth
myself.”
She gave me a
small, friendly smile. “I just wanted to say thank you, anyway, because I do
think I owe you my life.”
“Don’t mention
it. Maybe you can do the same for me one day.”
I stood up. “I
have to go downstairs now. Your mother told me not to tire you out. I think
you’re going to need all the rest you can get.”
“Okay,” she
laughed. “I’m getting a little bored with all this mollycoddling, but I guess
I’ll have to put up with it.”
“If you need
anything, just tell me,” I said. “Books, magazines, fruit. Just say the word.”
I opened the
door to leave, and Karen said: “De boot, mijnheer.”
I froze. I felt
as if a pair of cold hands had been laid on my back. I turned around and said:
“What did you
say?”
Karen was still
smiling. She said: “Be good, my dear. That’s what I said. Be good, my dear.”
I closed the
door of her room. Outside, on the landing, it was silent and dark. The old
colonial house creaked under the weight of the winter’s show.
“That’s what I
thought you said,” I whispered to myself, and went downstairs.
The End
Contents
Chapter
Three – Through the Shadows
Chapter
Four – Across the Twilight
Chapter
Five – Down in the Gloom