A Night in the Lonesome October (17 page)

    
"Come on!" it said.
 
"I'm almost strong enough to break out of here on my own now.
 
It won't go well with you if you keep me till I do."

    
"'Almost,'" I said, "isn't good enough."
 

    
It growled.
 
I growled back.
 
It flinched.
 
I was still in control.

    
The Thing in the Steamer Trunk had become a lot more active, too, glaring at me through its aperture.
 
And we had to install a sliding bar on the wardrobe in the attic, as the Thing there succeeded in breaking the latch.
 
But I drove it back again.
 
I was still in control there, too.

    
I went outside then, checking for foci of interference.
 
Finding nothing untoward, I walked over to Larry's place, intending to bring him up to date on everything and to see what news he might have.
 
I halted as it came into sight, though.
 
The Enderby coach was parked out front, the heavy man beside it.
 
Had I let this go on too long?
 
What might the Great Detective find so fascinating here that it warranted a return visit?
 
Nothing I could do now, of course.

    
I turned and walked back.

    
When I reached the neighborhood I found Graymalk waiting in my yard.

    
"Snuff," she said, "have you been calculating?"

    
"Only in my head," I replied.
 
"I think it might be easier to work this one out from a vantage."

    
"What vantage?"

    
"Dog's Nest," I said.
 
"If you're interested, come on."

    
She fell into step beside me.
 
The air was damp, the sky gray.
 
A wind gusted out of the northeast.

    
We passed Owen's place and Cheeter chattered at us from a branch:

    
"Odd couple!
 
Odd couple!" he called.
 
"Opener, closer!
 
Opener, closer!"

    
We did not respond.
 
Let the divinators have their day.

    
"It is an odd curse you are under," Graymalk remarked after a long while.

    
"Say rather that we are the keepers of a curse.
 
Perhaps more than one.
 
If you live long enough, these things have a way of accumulating.
 
How do you know of it?"

    
"Jack said something of it to the mistress."

    
"How strange.
 
It is not usually a thing we speak of."

    
"There must be a reason."

    
"Of course."

    
"So you have been present at more than one.
 
You have played the Game, many times?"

    
"Yes."

    
"Do you think he might be trying to persuade her to change, orientation?"

    
"Yes."

    
"I wonder what it would be like?"

    
We passed Rastov's place but did not stop.
 
On the road, later, MacCab went by, a stick in his hand.
 
He raised it as we neared, and I snarled at him.
 
He lowered it and muttered a curse.
 
I am used to curses, and no one can tell when I smile.

    
We continued into the countryside, coming at length to my hill.
 
There we climbed to the place of fallen and standing stones.
 
Southward of us, the black clouds rumbled and glared above the Good Doctor's house.

    
The winds were stronger at this height, and as I paced the circle a small rain began to descend.
 
Graymalk crouched on the dry side of a block of stone, watching me as I took my sightings.

    
Out of the southwest, I took my line from the distant graveyard, extending it to all of the other points of residence in view or in mind.
 
Then, from the place where lay the Count's remains, I did it again.
 
In my mind, I beheld the new design.
 
This pulled the center away from the manse, downward, southward, passing us, coming to rest ahead, slightly to the left.
 
I stood stock-still, the rain forgotten, as I worked it out, repeating the process line by line, seeing that center shift, positing where it had to fall. . . .

    
Again, the same area.
 
But there was nothing there, no outstanding feature.
 
Just a hillside, a few trees and rocks upon it.
 
No structures at all nearby.

    
"Something's wrong," I muttered.

    
"What is it?" Graymalk said.

    
"I don't know.
 
It's just not right.
 
In the past, they've always at least been interesting, acceptable candidates.
 
But this is, nothing.
 
Just a dull stretch of field to the south and a little to the west."

    
"All of the other candidates have also been wrong," she said, coming over, "no matter how interesting."
 
She mounted a nearby stone.
 
"Where is it?"

    
"Over there," I said, pointing with my head.
 
"To the right of those five or six trees clustered on that hillside."

    
She stared.

    
"You're right," she said.
 
"It doesn't look particularly promising.
 
You sure you calculated correctly?"

    
"Double-checked," I answered.

    
She returned to her shelter again, as the rain suddenly grew more forceful.
 
I followed her.

    
"I suppose we must visit it," she said a little later.
 
"After this lets up, of course."

    
She began licking herself.
 
She hesitated.

    
"I just thought of something," she said.
 
"The Count's skeleton.
 
Was that big ring he wore still upon his finger?"

    
"No," I said.
 
"Whoever did him in doubtless collected it."

    
"Then someone's probably doubly endowed."

    
"Probably."

    
"That would make him stronger, wouldn't it?"

    
"Only in technical prowess.
 
It might make him more vulnerable, too."

    
"Well, the technical end of things counts for something."

    
"It does."

    
"Do the Games always get confusing at some point?
 
Do they mess up the players' thinking, ideas, values?"

    
"Always.
 
Especially as events begin to cascade and accelerate near the end.
 
We create a kind of vortex about us just by being here and doing certain things.
 
Your confusion may trip you up.
 
Somebody else's confusion may save you."

    
"You're saying that it gets weird, but it all cancels out?"

    
"Pretty much, I think.
 
Till the end, of course."

    
There came a flash of light from nearby, followed by an instant crack of thunder.
 
The Good Doctor's storm was spreading.
 
Abruptly, the wind shifted, and we were drenched by the sudden pelting.

    
We bounded across the way immediately, into the shelter of a much larger stone.

    
Sitting there, miserable in the special way that wetness brings, my gaze was suddenly fixed upon the side of the stone.
 
There, brought out perhaps by the moisture, a series of scratchings and irregularities now appeared to be somewhat more than that.

    
"Well, I hope the whole gang of them appreciates all this trouble," she said, "Nyarlathotep, Chthulu, and all the rest of the unpronounceables.
 
Makes me wish I had a nice simple job catching mice for some farmer's wife...”

    
Yes, they were characters in some alphabet I did not know, incised there, worn faint, emphasized suddenly as the trickling water darkened the stone in some places, bringing out contrasts.
 
Even as I watched, they seemed to be growing clearer.

    
Then I drew back, for they began to glow with a faint red light.
 
They continued to brighten.

    
"Snuff," she said then, "why're you standing in the rain?"
 
Then her gaze moved to follow my own, and she added, "Uh-oh!
 
Think they heard me?"

    
Now they were ablaze, those letters, and they began to flow as if reading themselves.
 
Excess light formed itself into a high rectangular perimeter about them.

    
"I was only joking, you know," she said softly.

    
The interior of the rectangle took on a milky light.
 
A part of me wanted to bolt and run, but another part stood fascinated by the process.
 
Unfortunately, it was the latter part that seemed to be in control.
 
Graymalk stood like a shadowy statue, staring.

    
Deep within it then came a roiling, and I suppose it must be called a premonition, for suddenly that other part of me was in control again.
 
I sprang forward, seized Graymalk by the nape of her neck with my teeth and sprang away to the right.
 
Just as I did, a flare of lightning sprang from the rectangle and fell upon the area we had occupied but moments before.
 
I stumbled, feeling a small shock, feeling my hair rise.
 
Graymalk wailed, and the air smelled of ozone.

    
"I guess they're kind of touchy," I said, rising to my feet and falling again.

    
Then I felt the wind swirling about us, ten times stronger than it had been earlier.
 
I tried again to get to my feet and was again knocked down.
 
I glanced back at the stone, saw that the roiling had subsided, that another lightning bolt might not be imminent.
 
Instead, a faint outline hung there, of a silver key.
 
I crawled nearer to Graymalk.
 
The wind increased in intensity.
 
Somewhere, a voice came chanting, "Iä!
 
Shub-Niggurath!
 
The Black Goat of the Wood with a Thousand Young!"

    
"What's happening?" she wailed.

    
"Someone opened a gate to provide means for expressing disapproval of your remark," I suggested.
 
"That's done now, but the door hasn't swung shut yet.
 
That's what I think."

    
She leaned against me, back arched, ears flat, fur risen.
 
The wind, stronger still, was pushing against us now, near to the point of irresistibility.
 
I began to slide across the ground in the direction of the gate, dragging her with me.

    
"I've a feeling it'll close too late!" she cried.
 
"We're going through!"

    
She turned then and leaped upon me, clinging with all four paws to my neck.
 
Her claws were very sharp.

    
"We mustn't separate!" she said.

    
"Agreed!" I choked, as I began sliding faster.

    
I was able to gather my feet beneath me as we moved.
 
Rather than being pushed through, willy-nilly, some measure of grace might provide a survival edge.

    
It was easy to stop thinking of it as a rock wall that we were approaching, for there were obvious depths to it, though no clear features presented, and the image of the key had already faded.
 
What lay beyond, I'd no idea; that we were going to go through, I'd no doubt.
 
Better a little dignity then. . . .

    
Straightening my legs, I leaped forward.
 
Into the breach.
 
Into the mist. . . .

    
. . . Into the silence.
 
Immediately, as we passed through, the sounds of wind and rainfall ceased.
 
We did not come to rest upon a hard surface, or any other surface.
 
We were suspended in a place of pearl gray light, or, if we fell, there was no sensation of falling.
 
My legs were still extended, forward and back, as if I were leaping a fence, and while misty eddies and currents, faint as high clouds, played about us, my sense of motion was paradoxical; that is, by turning my head in any direction, I could create the feeling of pursuing a different vector.