The Devil Delivered and Other Tales

by Steven Erikson

  I’d always wondered about that.

  “An that, Tyke, is why I shut er down. I was endangerin the wildlife, y’see.”

  I nodded, then looked around. “Any rats in here?”

  “Nope, they use the trail. Got no need fur comin in ere.” Pausing just inside the entrance, she turned to me. “You know why they call this Rat Portage Lake, eh? Well, I seen them—jus once, mind you—giant rats, carryin bags on their heads and canoes, too. Comin down the trail, all in single file. Only seen it happen once, like I said, an that was a hundred years ago. They only come when they got good reason.”

  Everything that had been black was now turning gray, and I could make out all the shelves on the thin sagging walls, and the old lanterns hanging from the roof. And sitting there in that black water was the neatest boat I’d ever seen. It was all wood, varnished and sleek, with brass things on it all glimmering and winking. I couldn’t see a motor, so it must be hidden, I figured. It had a low windshield and a solid brass steering wheel.

  “Does it still run?”

  “Course it does!” Grandma Matchie chackled, striding forward with big steps and dragging me along behind. “Ain’t bin out in fifty years, jus sittin there, waitin.”

  “Waitin for what?”

  “You’ll see!” She laughed, and laughed again. “You’ll see! Come on!”

  Letting go of my hand she leapt across ten feet and landed behind the wheel. I jumped in after her and dropped down into the seat beside her. In front of us was the closed-up garage door, all boarded up and stuff. The motor roared to life and Grandma Matchie whammed that throttle forward.

  The front lurched up and I was snapped back in my seat. Then—crash! Daylight exploded all over us and pieces of wood flew in all directions and we were flying out over the waves.

  I shouted: “Where are we going?”

  One hand on the wheel, the other cranking the throttle, Grandma Matchie grinned. “I’ve had it with the Major once an fur all! Him an his lyin! Him an his schemin!”

  “But I thought you made up!” I cried.

  “With that skulker!? Hah! I wuz jus takin a breather! An so wuz he! But now I’m gonna end it once an fur all!”

  Staring through the windshield I could see the Major’s island. We were flying right towards it. I could see the flagpole, with its Union Jack standing straight out at attention, a row of gulls holding it that way, fladapping madly. And then I saw the Major running down to the dock where the H.M.S. Hood lolled. Jumping aboard he cast off and surgled away from the dock, swinging about to face us.

  “It’s war he wants, war he gets!” Grandma Matchie shrieked, leaning forward. “No more lyin, no more nothin!” Baring her teeth she yanked hard on the throttle and spun the wheel. We whirred by the Major, missing him by an inch. I saw his face, the wild whiskers, huge red nose flying by at a thousand million sixty twenty miles an hour.

  “We’ve got im now!” Grandma Matchie laughed, turning us about. Directly ahead I saw the Hood, flundolering in the waves we’d left behind. Going at full speed, we raced for her. “We’ll ram em! That’s what we’ll do, laddie!”

  Staring with wild eyes as we bore down on the Hood, I let out a yell just as we rammed her from the side. Everything shook until my insides rattled, and then we were through. Turning around, I saw the Hood, broken in half and sinking, but no Major.

  “Got im!” Grandma Matchie howled.

  “But where is he?”

  For answer she jerked her thumb straight up and I looked and there he was, being carried back to his island in defeat by his gulls. He shook his fist at us, but you could see he was beaten.

  “We got im! An never again will that blarny boat troll bait past my windows! Hah!”

  Mom was sweeping the dock when we pulled up, and she started screaming at Grandma Matchie right away. “Mother! Jock Junior’s not wearin a lifejacket! Do you know how dangerous that is? Boatin without a lifejacket?”

  Stepping up on the dock I stuck my tongue out at Sis, who was standing behind Mom. Her hair was now metallic silver, and the bumps on her chest had smaller bumps, making them look like bull’s-eyes. I threw a dead minnow at her (minnows are safe) and she started crying when it got stuck in her hair. Rainbow trout minnow, Grandma Matchie said mysteriously when she finally dug it out from all those blue spikes and knots and things on Sis’s head.

  Mom tuggeled my ear, but Grandma Matchie laughed so I grinned at her, which made Mom tuggle my ear again.

  I don’t mind things like that. After all, it’s just show, so things look like they’re supposed to. Discipline, Big Nose would call it, but what does she know?

  Grandma Matchie wandered off, muthering about Satan Himself and his schemin, and me and Mom and Sis went back to the cabin. In the living room the Indians were killing all the bluecoats, but Arrow Flynn was grinning as he stood on a pile of bodies and blasted from both hips. Dad had a banana in each hand and made noises as he shot at the screen.

  “Hey Dad! Look at Sis now! Her hair looks like tinsel!” Pointing, I laughed.

  “Gothic in panties, girl! Why not just stick yer head in a blender an get it over with!”

  Her face turning red and scrunching up, Sis bolted for the kitchen, where she let out a bawl.

  “Aaaaggghh!” Mom screamed, and I whirled. She had been sweeping round the woodstove and the broom had caught fire. “Aaaaagggghhh!” Screaming and running in circles, Mom waved the flaming brackling pafting broom above her head, trailing ashes and sparks all over the place.

  “GET THAT DAMN THING OUTA HERE!” Dad bellowed.

  But she ran right at him. Rearing back, Dad bleated as Mom swung that broom down into the ginurgling water. Hisspering sounds filled the air and clouds rolled up from the Jacuzzi.

  “Ester! You damn near set my hair on fire! Are you nuts!?”

  Mom started crying, standing in front of him. And Sis was bawling in the kitchen, and Arrow Flynn had bit the big one. I bolted for the door, escaped outside without anyone noticing.

  Down the trail beyond the outhouse I caught a glimpse of blue dress, so I took off after it. Grandma Matchie was the only one who wasn’t crazy around here, so I figured I’d stick with her.

  Running down the trail, I didn’t catch up with her until after we came out into a rocky clearing. At the far end was a pile of boulders as high as a house and as wide as a city block, stretching right across the clearing like a wall.

  “Comin fishin, Tyke?” Grandma Matchie asked without even turning round to see who was coming up on her.

  “Sure! What’re we gonna catch?”

  “Satan Himself, that’s who.”

  A deep-sea fishing rod in one hand and a bait box in the other, Grandma Matchie strode across the clearing, kicking rocks out of the way with her big boots. I followed as she climbed up the wall of boulders and stopped beside her at the top.

  On the other side was a river of black water, flowing through a giant crack in the bedrock. The banks were steep and shadowy, and the water looked deep.

  In a flat space between two boulders sat a rocking chair with a harness belt bolted to it. Grandma Matchie set down the rod and the bait box and stood at the edge, glaring down into the water. “He’s probbly plannin somethin, or my name’s not Grandma Matchie!” She shook her head. “Plannin somethin evil, no doubts ’bout it. If’n there’s one thing he don’t tol’rate it’s the likes a you’n me messin up his schemin.”

  “So what’re we gonna do?”

  “We’re gonna get im afore he gets us, that’s what we’re gonna do!” And she grinned. “We’re gonna brin thins to a head, get it right out in the open! Satan Himself hates that! Hah!” And she settled herself down into the worn seat and buckled up. “Hand me the rod, Tyke, an the bait too.”

  I stared at the gloomeny water. “How d’you know he’s in there?”

  “Where else would he be? An I’ve had nibbles ’ere afore, lemme tell you! But we’ll get im this time—I’ve got an itch, an when Grandma Matchie’s g
ot an itch then sure enough Satan Himself’s lurkin ’bout.”

  “Where’s it itch?”

  “Never you mind. Now here, pull me out a worm, the fattest one in there, and don’t break im now.”

  Pulling up a handful of earth from the bait box I broke it up in my fingers, but there was only one worm and it was all skinny and oozing.

  “That’s perfect!” Grandma Matchie cried. Grabbing it from my hand she tied it in a knot around the biggest hook I’d ever seen. It was big as me, all shiny brass, with two barbs on the shank. Monofilament line was tied to the loop. “Two pound test. Gotta be sportin, Tyke.” Adjusting the drag on the Abu reel she leaned forward and swung the hook out over the water and began letting out line. I watched the bait sink into the black river, flash once in the dark water, then vanish.

  “D’you think he’s hungry?”

  Shaking her head, Grandma Matchie said, “He’s ne’er hungry fur long, Tyke. An he’s probbly not hungry now, but it ne’er stopped im afore. He loves worms.” Her brow was all scrunched up and her eyes were burning slits. I felt sorry for Satan Himself.

  You got to be patient when you’re fishing, so I sat down on a rock to wait. Big flat bugs crawled up from the water and settled down on the warm stone all around me. Leaning close to one I stared into its bug eyes. “What are these, Grandma Matchie?”

  “Drag’nfly nymphs. They grow up in the water then come out an sprout wings when it’s sunny. Drag’nflies are good, Tyke, cause they et skeeters an gnats, an gulls when they get the chance, which ain’t often ’nough if you ask me.”

  I watched as the bug’s body dried up and then the back split open and after a minute the dragonfly’s head came out and looked round. “What happens in the water to make them grow up?” I asked.

  “They get big, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But why do they get big?”

  “Things in the water feeds em, that’s why. But I’ll tell ya somethin, Tyke, most a these ones ’ere won’t be able t’fly, cause the water’s bad. Their wings’ll come out all shriveled up—I’ve seen it ’ere afore.”

  And she was right. The dragonfly’s wings were all shriveled up, like crunched cellophane. “Grandma Matchie! We gotta help him!”

  “We can’t, Tyke. Somethins are jus too big e’en fur me!”

  “But a dragonfly’s not big!”

  “Nope, he ain’t. But the well where all that water’s comin from is bigger than Satan Himself!”

  I frowned, leaned back on the rock. “Grandma Matchie, how come Satan Himself lives here, in Rat Portage Lake?”

  Grandma Matchie chuckled. “Cause it wuz ’ere he wuz sittin when that shootin star came down, an it bounced right off his head and landed o’er in Man’toba! That’s a bump he’ll ne’er furget! Hah!”

  “Where’d that shootin star come from?”

  Grandma Matchie looked down at me, and her eyes spackled. “Y’know what it’s like when you sudd’nly get an idea an there’s this lightbulb appearin right o’er yer head? E’er seen it?”

  “Yep! Lotsa times!”

  “Right. Well, that shootin star’s jus a big lightbulb, know what I mean?”

  I sat back up. “You mean it was somebody’s idea? Who?”

  And she winked. “Alla us, Tyke. Me’n Lunker an the Major an One Armed Trapper an Leap Year an a whole million other stor’ tellers all o’er the wide world! You’n me, Tyke, that’s who thought up that shootin star!”

  “Then who is Satan Himself?” I demanded.

  “Truth is, Tyke, he’s somethin diff’rent fer everyone! He’s jus a fancy name, is all.”

  “But Grandma Matchie—”

  “Got im!” she screamed, rearing back in the rocking chair and driving the hook home. The line hummed, then the drag shrilled, throwing out sparks as Grandma Matchie set the hook again and again. Driving the butt of the fishing pole into the belt socket she bared her teeth. “I got im! I got im!”

  She began pumpening, reeling up slack, pumpening and pumpening as she rocked in the old creaking chair. The river began churning, burbbling purbling and frothing. I could hear a roar and all the dragonfly nymphs scalampered for cover.

  “Ere he comes! My God! I furgot the gaff! Tyke! Go get the gaff! Quick! Up in the cabin!” Satan Himself made a run, and the thin line whined and the drag whirnelled.

  Leaping to my feet I scampered down the rocks, hit the flat clearing and tore across it. Screaming all the way, I flew down the trail. All the trees went by in a blur, but I could see every bump and root on the ground and I didn’t stumble once. I never ran so fast in my life, and it was so easy I bet I didn’t even touch the ground half the time.

  Then I saw the cabin and then I was tearing up the porch, flying through the kitchen and into the living room. Everyone was screaming, Mom pulling Dad’s arms as he stood in the Jacuzzi roaring at the video screen, where a thousand million twenty hundred nine Indians were riding down on us.

  “Yeaagggh!” roared Dad.

  “Jock Junior!” Mom shrieked over her shoulder. “Come quick! Dad’s got his foot caught in the drain! He’s being sucked down!”

  “Where’s the gaff?”

  “NO!” Dad screamed.

  “Jock Junior! I won’t let you use the gaff! This is your father! Help me! Oh my!”

  “I’m being sucked down! Yeaaaggghhh!”

  I jumped to Mom’s side, grabbed one of Dad’s arms and pulled. “Sis! Get a rope!” I looked over my shoulder. She stood by the kitchen, her eyes wide and her hair green with leaves growing out of it. “Look at her hair! It’s green!”

  Sis clenched her fists and brought them to her temples. “I CAN’T HELP IT!” she bawled. “IT’S NOT ME! It’s just happening! I’m not DOING anything!” Acorns fell from her head and bounced on the wooden floor. “Waaa!”

  “Get a rope!”

  Still crying, she stumbled away. Dad’s whole leg from the knee down had disappeared into the drain, and the foaming water was up to his chest. Me and Mom pulled and pulled. The knotted end of a heavy rope hit me in the head and I grabbed it with one hand. “Tie this round your waist, Dad!” I yelled, throwing it at him. “Mom, you gotta hold on while I tie the other end to somethin!” Nodding, she gripped the rope while Dad looped it around himself and made a knot. I picked up the other end and looked around for something to tie it to. The closest thing was the big refrigerator, where Dad kept all his beer. Wrapping the rope three times I tied a knot and cinched it up until it was tight.

  “Yeaaggghh!”

  In the closet hung the gaff. Taking it down, I turned and looked around. Everything seemed under control, so I plowed through the door and leapt off the porch and raced down the trail. Then I skidded to a stop, because the trail was full of rats, plodding two abreast, with grain sacks on their backs and canoes too, the smallest aluminum canoes I’d ever seen. And they were singing in squeaky high voices some funny French song.

  But I had no time to waste, so I edged to one side of the trail and ran past them. I heard their squeaks of surprise, then little cheers. Running and running, I came to a clearing and crossed it. I went up the rocks like a spider and reached Grandma Matchie’s side.

  She was still pumpening away, and the water boibled, full of bobbing beer cans and video cassettes. Not even breathing hard, she hisspered, “I got im now, no doubts ’bout it, I got Satan Himself!” She cranked the reel and rocked back. “Get down t’the edge an get that gaff ready, Tyke! He’s gotta holda somethin an he won’t let go! Get that gaff ready!”

  A huge hump rose from the water and a giant scaly head with a hook in its jaws reared up and glared at us. He was a dragon, with red and gold scales and flames for eyes, and he had giant crinkled-up wings and aluminum fangs, and giant ears that came to glowing red points. He was the biggest thing I’d ever seen and I screamed. Crouching at the edge, I lifted the gaff in both hands.

  “He’s gotta holda somethin!” Grandma Matchie shrieked. “Give im a poke, Tyke! Give im a poke!” She ro
ared with laughter, pumpening and reeling and rocking.

  Staring into the black water, I could see Satan’s forearms clutching something pale and hairy and struggling. Then I recognized it. “Dad’s foot! He’s got Dad’s foot!”

  “So that’s his game, eh! Give im a poke!”

  Lifting the gaff skyward, I yelled and drove it home.

  “That’s the way, Tyke!”

  I hit him in the belly and the gaff sank in halfway then popped out again.

  “OOOOOF!”

  Satan thrashed and hissed and let go of Dad’s foot so he could clutch his belly. He gasped for a couple of seconds, then, wagging his head he raised his forearms and made fists and glared down at me. “I WON’T TOLERATE THIS IMPERTINENCE!”

  “Oh you won’t, eh?” Grandma Matchie laughed, yanking on the fishing pole so that Satan’s head snapped forward and he almost lost his balance and began falling forward, but then his fists came down—thumpthump!

  “AAAGGGH!” he roared, chomping at the hook that was snagged in his lower jaw. “IT’S JUST NOT FAIR!” he wailed, closing his eyes shut.

  “Let this be a lesson t’ya, Satan!” Grandma Matchie was suddenly at my side, and in her hands she gripped the ax she had thrown in the lake earlier. “Never mess wi the likes a Grandma an Jock Junior! If’n y’know what’s good fer ya!” Grinning, she raised up the ax and with one slice cut the line. Satan Himself plunged backwards, throwing sheets of black water all over the place, and his wail turned into a gurgle as the river swallowed him.

  “But we had him!” I shouted.

  But Grandma Matchie just chackled. “We sure did, Tyke, but I’m in it fur the sport, an that’s all. Jus in it fur the sport. Come on, let’s go have lunch.”