Demons

by Gardner Dozois

  Patrick smiled, his face warmly reminiscent.

  Bleeker studied the other man carefully. "What was the name of your little girl?"

  "Shan."

  "Odd name."

  "Lilas picked it. It's short for chandelle, French for 'candle.' Lilas was French, you know. Lilas Blanc. White lilac. And Shan was our little candle. The wallpaper in the nursery was designed with a candle print. The lights above her crib were artificial candles. We painted fluorescent candles inside her crib. She would pat them every night before I tucked her in."

  Bleeker cleared his throat. "Con, sooner or later somebody's going to tell Harvey Jayne that you renamed Neol after your baby daughter."

  Patrick didn't get it. He stared back, stupidly. "After . . . Shan?"

  "Well, didn't you? Shan . . . Shane . . . ?"

  Patrick felt his insides collapsing. "But I didn't . . ." he blurted. "It didn't occur to me." Then his mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. "At least, consciously. But there it is, isn't it? So maybe you're right, Andy. I really walked into that one. There I was, telling Cord that Jayne's mental blocks wouldn't let him see why he liked Shane. The same rule applied to me, although I don't want my daughter's name on terpineol, plastered on tank cars, warehouses, stationery, magazine ads. Too late now. Botched the whole thing."

  Bleeker regarded him gravely. "Con, how long has it been now, since the . . . accident?"

  "Three years."

  "You're still a young man, Con. Relatively speaking. Our young ladies think it's about time you got back into circulation."

  "You might be right, Andy."

  Bleeker coughed. "You're just being agreeable to avoid an argument. Believe me, Con, it's one thing to remember the dead. It's an altogether different thing to have your every waking thought controlled by your memories. You ought to get away from that place."

  Patrick was shocked. "Move? From the garden? The house? It has our bedroom. Shan's room. How about Lilas? How about Shan? They're buried there. Their ashes—"

  "Ashes?"

  "They were cremated. Lilas wanted it that way. I spread the ashes in the lilacs."

  The older man looked at him with compassion. "Then release them, Con. Let them go!"

  "I can't, Andy." Patrick's face twisted. "They're all I have. Can't you understand?"

  "I guess I do, Con. I guess I do. I'm sorry. None of my business, really."

  On this night of all nights in the year,

  Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

  Edgar Allan Poe, Ulalume

  The evening was warm, and along about ten o'clock the party drifted down into the garden.

  Patrick, as usual drinking only beer, was for all practical purposes cold sober, a condition that enhanced rather than alleviated an unexplainable and growing sense of anxiety. The nearness of the lilacs, usually a thing of nostalgic pleasure, somehow contributed to his edginess. He was startled to note that several clusters were on the verge of opening. He started to call Cord's attention to this, then thought better of it. And then he wondered, Why didn't I? What's the matter with me? What's going on?

  The group was in the arbor now. He would have to get on with it, the reason why they were all here. Paul Bleeker and John Fast knew what they were supposed to do. All he had to do was to ask them to start. Paul was already seated at the stone table. As he watched, Paul pulled the table drawer out in an idle exploratory gesture.

  "My notes for a patent law article I started . . . a couple of years ago," said Patrick wryly. "I just can't seem to get back to it."

  "Then perhaps you should be thankful," said Fast.

  "What do you mean?"

  "A professional man writes for a variety of reasons," said Fast. "I'm working now on my Encyclopedia of Oxidative Reactions. I know why I'm writing it. And I know why you're not writing, Con. It's because life has been kind to you. Let it stay that way."

  Paul Bleeker broke in. "You say a professional man writes for a variety of reasons, John. Name one. Why do you write?"

  Fast's dark eyes turned on Paul Bleeker. "You have heard it said, a man owes a debt to his profession. This may be true. But no professional man pays his debt by writing for the profession. If he is an independent, say a consulting engineer, or a partner in a law firm, or a history professor in a big university, he publishes because it's part of his job to advertise himself and his establishment. There's very little money in it per se. If he's a rising young man in a corporate research or corporate law department, he writes for the reputation. It helps him move up. If his own company doesn't recognize him, their competitors will. But if he's already at the top of his department in his company, he has none of these incentives. But he doesn't need them. If such a man writes, he has behind him the strongest force known to the human mind."

  "And what might that be?"

  "Guilt," said Fast quietly. "He writes to hide from the things he has done in the name of his profession. It gives him a protective cocoon to burrow into. A smoke screen to hide behind."

  "In the name of the patent system," said Patrick firmly, "I've committed every crime known to man. And still I can't get started."

  "You've done very little, really," said Fast in his nearly inaudible monotone. "But when you really have done something, you'll know it. You won't have to wonder or conjecture. Then, you'll begin to write. It'll come instantly. No floundering. No lost motion. You'll leap to it. The words, pages, and chapters will pour out in a torrent. It will be your salvation, your sure escape."

  They stared at him. Cord laughed nervously. "So why do you write, John? What is your unspeakable crime?"

  Fast turned his great black eyes on the other, almost unseeing. "I cannot tell you, my friend. And you wouldn't believe me if I did tell you. Anyhow, it can never happen to you." He looked away to Patrick. "But to you, Con, it could happen. And it could happen soon. Tonight. In this place."

  Patrick laughed shakily. "Well, now, John. You know how careful I am. Nothing is going to happen to me. It's spare time I need to start writing, not penitence."

  Fast looked at him gravely. "You do not weep. You smile. Before the Nazarene called Lazarus up, He wept." His toneless eyes seemed almost sad. "How can I explain this to you. Then let it be done. I have placed the Shane manual at the five angles of the pentagram. I think they are waiting."

  "They?" stammered Patrick. "Oh yes, of course. The fellows. Perhaps we should begin."

  "What's that smell?" called Sullivan.

  "It's a terpineol," said Fast, sniffing a moment. "Like Shane. Maybe a mixture of alpha and gamma terpineols." He snapped his fingers. "Of course!"

  "Of course . . . what?" said Patrick. His voice was under control, but he felt his armpits sweating copiously.

  "The mixture . . . very correctly balanced, I'd say. Just right for synthetic oil of lilac."

  Patrick was struck dumb.

  "That's very odd," said Sullivan. "Con's lilacs are not open yet."

  "The odor must be coming from somewhere."

  "Maybe we're all tired," said Cord. "Breeds hallucinations, you know."

  Patrick looked at him in wonder.

  "It's hard to convince anybody that odor can have a supra-chemical source," said Fast.

  Cord laughed incredulously. "You mean there's something out there that is synthesizing oil of lilac . . . or Shane . . . or whatever it is?"

  "We are so accustomed to thinking of the impact of odors on people that we don't think too much about the creation of odors by people. Actually, of course, everyone has his characteristic scent, and it's generally not unpleasant, at least under conditions of reasonable cleanliness. In this, man is not really basically different from the other animals. But man—or rather, a certain few extraordinary people—seems to have the ability, quite possibly involuntary, of evoking odors that could not possibly have come from the human sweat gland."

  "Evoking?" said Sullivan.

  "No other word seems to describe the phenomenon. Chemically speaking, in the sense of detectabl
e airborne molecules dissolving in the olfactory mucosa, the presence of odor is indeed arguable. On the other hand, in the strictly neuropsychic sense, that an 'odor' response has been received in the cerebrum, there can be no real doubt. The phenomenon has been reported and corroborated by entire groups. The 'odor of sanctity' of certain saints and mystics seems to fall in this category. Thomas Aquinas radiated the scent of male frankincense. Saint John of the Cross had a strong odor of lilies. When the tomb of Saint Theresa of Avila—the 'great' Theresa—was opened in 1583, the scent of violets gushed out. And more recently, the odor of roses has been associated with Saint Theresa of Lisieux—the 'little' Theresa." He looked at Patrick. "I think everyone is ready."

  Patrick wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Go ahead," he said hoarsely.

  Ma chandelle est morte . . .

  French Nursery Rhyme

  Paul Bleeker was seated in the iron chair at the stone table. John Fast faced him, from one side. The others stood behind Paul.

  "You are in a long dark tunnel," said John Fast quietly. "Just now everything is pitch black. But your eyes are beginning to adjust."

  There was absolute silence. Then Fast's voice droned on. "In a little while, far ahead of you, you will be able to see the tunnel opening. It will be a tiny disk of light. When you see this little light, I want you to nod your head gently."

  From far downstream drifted the plaintive call of a whippoorwill.

  Paul Bleeker's eyes were heavy, glazed. His stony slump in the iron chair was broken only by his slow, rhythmic breathing.

  "You now see the little light—the mouth of the tunnel," monotoned Fast. "Nod your head."

  "Candle," whispered Paul.

  Patrick started, then recovered himself instantly.

  Fast picked it up smoothly. "Watch the candle," he said. "Soon it will start to move toward you. It is beginning to move."

  "Closer," murmured Paul.

  In a flash of feverish ingenuity Patrick stepped forward, seized the wine bottle and its stub of candle from the stone table, struck his lighter, then lit the candle. He replaced the bottle on the table front. The flame wavered a moment, then flickered up. Patrick stole a glance at Paul's face. It was frozen, impassive.

  Fast continued gravely: "Soon you will have enough light to see that you are sitting at your desk in the library. In a moment you will see the piles of books on the tables near by. There are several books on your desk. There's a big book just in front of you. Now the candle is close enough."

  "Close," murmured Paul.

  The hair on Patrick's scalp was rising. The odor of lilacs was itlfling. And he then noticed that the lilacs were opening, all around him. He somehow realized that lilacs do not bloom in minutes. It was a botanical impossibility. He could almost hear the tender calyxes folding back.

  Fast continued. "You are opening the front cover. You are looking at the title page. It is typewritten. It is a thesis. You are able to read everything. You can see the name clearly. The name of the student is—"

  Patrick heard gasps behind him, and his eyes suddenly came into focus. Beyond Paul, on the far edge of the stone table, beyond the candle, he saw the two figures. They were wavering, silent, indistinct, but they were there. The larger one would just about reach his chin. The eyes of the small one came barely to the table edge.

  He wanted to scream, but nothing would come out of his throat.

  The taller figure was leaning over the table towards Paul, and she was holding something . . . an open book. But neither figure was looking at Paul. Both of them were looking at him. He knew them.

  In this frozen moment his nose twitched. The scent of lilacs wavered, then was suddenly smothered by something sharp, acrid. Patrick recognized it, without thinking. It was ozone. And as if in confirmation of its olfactory trademark, a luminous . . . thing . . . was taking shape behind the two figures. Suddenly it acquired a face, then eyes. Then arms, reaching out, encircling.

  Patrick had a horrid, instantaneous flash of recognition. The portrait in John Fast's office. Mephistopheles taking Faust.

  "The name of the student is Lilas Blanc," said Paul Bleeker metallically. "State U—"

  "Oh, God, NO!" screamed Patrick.

  The candle blew out instantly. Paul struggled in his chair. "Hey, what . . . where?" He knocked the chair over getting up.

  The voices rose up around Patrick in the darkness.

  He dropped in a groaning heap on the grass. "Lilas, Shan, forgive me. I didn't know." But he must have known. All along.

  And now his mind began to swing like a pendulum, faster and faster, finally oscillating in a weird rhythm of patterns so bewildering and contradictory that he could hardly follow them. His mind said to him, They escaped. It said to him, They did not escape. It said to him, They were there. It said, Nothing was there. And then it started again. His throat constricted, his teeth bit the turf, and by brazen command his thoughts slowed their wounded flailing. He ceased to ask, to wonder. And finally he refused to think at all.

  He heard Cord's firm voice. Somebody found the light switch. There were querulous whispers. And then there was something on his back. Some of them had dropped their jackets on him. A man's hand lingered briefly on his shoulder. It was a gentle, even affectionate gesture, and he recognized the touch as that of a man accustomed to tucking small children into their beds at night. He had used the same touch, many times, and long ago.

  And now the sound of footsteps fading. And then, motors starting. And finally nothing, just the splash of the little falls, the crickets, and far away, the whippoorwill.

  He did not want to move. He wanted only never to have been born.

  He closed his eyes, and sleep locked him in.

  I hold every man a debtor to his profession; from the which, as men, of course do seek to receive countenance and profit, so ought they of duty to endeavor themselves by way of amends to be a help and ornament thereunto.

  Francis Bacon,

  Preface to Maxims of the Law

  It was early morning, and with the pink of dawn on his cheek, waking was instantaneous. His mind was clear and serene as he threw the jackets aside and got to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, stretched with enormous gusto, and walked over to the lily pond. A green frog was sitting on a pad of the yellow lotus but jumped in as Patrick bent over to splash water on his face. He dried his face on his shirttail, which was flopping out over his belt.

  The sun was now barely over the little hill, and a shaft of light was slicing into the pond. Patrick considered this phenomenon briefly, then peered into the bottom of the pool for the refracted beam. There was some kind of rule of optics—law of sines. Somebody's law. Check into it. Meanwhile, there was work to be done. Important work.

  He walked into the arbor, picked up the overturned iron chair, sat down at the stone table and pulled a pencil and paper pad out of the drawer. After a moment, he began to write; slowly, at first.

  "Ex parte Gulliksen revisited. The typewritten college thesis as a prior printed publication. This decision from the Patent Office Board of Appeals in . . ."

  Then faster and faster. ". . . essential, of course, that the thesis be available to the public. This requirement is satisfied by . . ."

  Now he was writing furiously, and the pages were accumulating.

  He was going to make it. Just a question of staying with it now, and it would give him complete protection. No need to worry about what to work on after this article, either. He knew he could turn out a text. No trouble at all. Or even an encyclopedia. Patrick, Chemical Patent Practice, four volumes. He could see it now. Red vinyl covers, gilt lettering.

  The stack of sheets torn from his pad was now quite bulky. He pushed the pile to the table corner, and in so doing knocked the bottle and candle unheeding to the ground and into the withering lilacs. Already he could visualize his "Preface to the First Edition." It should be something special, based perhaps on a precisely apt quotation. What was that thing from Bacon? He frowned, puzzled. No. T
here was something not quite right about that. But never mind. Plenty of others. Somehow, somewhere, there would be a word for him.

  FURTHER READING

  Fiction

  Anderson, Poul. "The Tale of Hauk," Swords Against Darkness.

  Asimov, Isaac. "One Night of Song," The Winds of Change and Other Stories.

  Attanasio, A. A. "One Night of Song," Nameless Places.

  Balzac, Honore de. "The Succubus," Once Against the Law.

  Beekman, Allan. "Dog Spirit," Hawaiian Tales.

  Benson, A.C. "The Slype House," Return From the Grave.

  Bester, Alfred. "Hell is Forever," The Unknown Five.

  Bierce, Ambrose. "Eyes of the Panther," The Complete Stories of Ambrose Bierce.

  Blish, James. "Wolf in the Fold," The Star Trek Reader I.

  Bloch, Robert. "The Dark Demon."

  Bloch, Robert. "Enoch," The Best of Robert Bloch.

  Bloch, Robert. "Return to the Sabbath" (under Tarleton Fiske),

  The Hollywood Nightmare.

  Bloch, Robert. "Sweet Sixteen," Pleasant Dreams-Nightmares.

  Bowles, Paul. "The Circular Valley," Collected Stories, 1939-1976.

  Bretnor, Reginald. "All the Tea in China," SF 7th Annual.

  Brown, Fredric. "Nasty," Great Black Magic Stories.

  Brown, Fredric. "The New One," Unknown, October 1942.

  Campbell, Ramsey. "The Chimney," Whispers I.

  Campbell, Ramsey. "Jack's Little Friend," The Height of a Scream.

  Campbell, Ramsey. "Out of Copyright," Whispers IV.

  Carter, Lin. "Out of the Ages," Nameless Places.

  Cartmill, Cleve. "Hell Hath Fury," Unknown, August 1943.

  Cave, Hugh B. "The Door Below," Whispers III.