The Deavys

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  “Help? Who needs help?” By way of punctuation, a vole came flying out of the flickering light to land at the Chihuahua’s feet, its furry back broken. “But if you’ve nothing better to do,” Pithfwid went on, “I grow bored with this interminable slaughter. You could, in your small, insignificant way, perhaps help me put an end to it a minute or two sooner.”

  “Insignificant?” Señor Nutt puffed himself up, which on the face of it did not result in very much of an expansion. He continued to puff, however, and as he puffed he grew. A cloud of luminous gold sparkles appeared and glittered around him, illuminating the transformation. Bigger and stronger, more and more thickset he became, until when he finally stopped puffing he stood nearly as tall at the shoulder as the crouching Crub. A flabbergasted Simwan recognized what his uncle’s pet had become. Not all the books he read were arcane tomes from his parents’ library. Others he had perused online, or read in school. Paleontology, for example, was a subject that contrasted nicely with his father’s lexicon of real imaginary beasts.

  Señor Nutt, the Ur-Chihuahua, had transformed into a dire wolf.

  With a snarl that reverberated around the three-story chamber, the newly fashioned agent of canine chaos sprang forward into the line of the Crub’s personal bodyguards. The first snap of the monster wolf-dog’s powerful jaws nearly bit one in half.

  From his location atop an ever-growing knoll of destroyed rats and other creatures, Pithfwid observed the canine metamorphosis. “Hmph. Is that the best you can do? Mere dog stuff.” Taking a deep breath, he similarly began to swell. And swell, and inflate. His paws expanded to the size of hubcaps, the muscles in his shoulders and back grew corded and knotted, tufts of hair appeared at the tips of his ears, and his teeth—his front canines grew and grew and grew until they were six, seven, nine inches long.

  There came a roar that loosened some of the mortar holding together the aged, slime-coated building stones and shook dust from the ceiling. Those fighting rodents and snakes and ools who were in a position to witness the dramatic, dynamic, and explosive transformation of the Deavys’ cat either collapsed on the spot as fear stopped their hearts, or scrambled desperately to flee. For the first time in their miserable collective lives, they saw something that frightened them even more than the Crub.

  Crouching low, tail switching back and forth, bolts of miniature lightning crackling from its toes and tail, the violet-eyed black sabertooth tiger crossed the room in a single jump.

  Amber, who had been standing closest to Pithfwid, took a moment out from her lethal rat-spinning to marvel at the wondrous transformation before returning to the methodical slaughter at hand.

  “Oooh—big kitty!”

  Shards of torn rodent filled the chamber like a red snowstorm as dire wolf and sabertooth tore into the army of rats and mice and voles and ools. The screaming and squealing that resounded throughout the room rose to new heights of horror.

  Seeing the destruction that was being wrought among his followers, the stunned Crub realized that utter defeat was imminent. It made no sense. Apocalypse in a bottle. Who could fathom the workings of the human mind, be it Ord or Otherwise? They were not rat-ional. Had he known that taking the pretty, sensitive thing would lead to such disaster, he would have left the stupid notion on its shelf in the obscure store in the even more obscure town where it had been stored. Now it was too late. Too late for anything.

  Except revenge.

  As the very much metamorphosed Pithfwid and Señor Nutt rapidly whittled down the numbers of the Crub’s surviving ratainers, he advanced deliberately on the one human who was still cornered against a wall.

  “STUPID MAN-APE! ALL THIS DEATH AND DIFFICULTY OVER A LITTLE TRUTH AND ONE PITIABLE BIRTH MOTHER.”

  “It’s not your birth mother,” Simwan shot back defiantly. “Why—why did you take it, anyway?” Even though faced with impending death, Simwan could not keep from asking the question that had bothered him ever since he and his sisters had first learned the identity of the thief who had broken into the depths of Mr. Gemimmel’s store. “Of what use is the Truth to you?”

  “NOT I, NOT I. IT WAS THE GOINGS-ON IN YOUR COUNTRY. NEWS OF THE PROPOSED DEVELOPMENT THERE REACHED EVEN TO THE CITY. MORE DEVELOPMENT WOULD MEAN MORE NICE, FILTHY, OVERLY DENSE HOUSING. MORE DENSE HOUSING MEANS MORE FERTILE GROUND WHERE MY KIND CAN THRIVE AND PROSPER AND MULTIPLY.” The Crub took another ominous step toward him. “TO MAKE THAT HAPPEN, THE TRUTH NEEDED TO BE REMOVED FROM YOUR COMMUNITY. IT WAS PLACED THERE TO HELP YOUR KIND. I STOLE IT TO HELP MY KIND.”

  Desperately, Simwan tried to think of a spell to fend off the mutated monstrosity that was padding inexorably toward him. Even one of his mom’s kitchen knives would be welcome, but he had paid no attention to the relevant enchantments. Kitchen utensils were “girl stuff.” How he wished for a sharp-edged, well-honed length of steel girl stuff in his right hand now!

  Seeing what was happening, an alarmed Uncle Herkimer tried to make his way to his nephew’s side. But there were still too many fighting rats, too many heaped-up bodies, blocking his path. All he could do was shout a redundant warning.

  “Look out, boy! Beware the brute!”

  “ALL DIE, ALL! BUT I TAKE ONE WITH ME!” the Crub screeched as it started its leap. Too late, Pithfwid saw what was happening and turned to intervene. But the grown-up throwback cat had been swarmed by dozens of desperate badgers and rats and snakes and ferrets. Señor Nutt’s angle of approach was blocked by flying or fallen corpses. The coubet was similarly occupied. In those critical seconds it would be left to Simwan to defend himself.

  And he had nothing to fight back with.

  XXIII

  At the last possible instant he remembered what reposed in his jacket pocket. It seemed far too small and insignificant to make a difference. But it was all he had. Fumbling beneath the pocket’s flap, he pulled out the small bottle of Roman glass, tugged off the stopper, and flicked a portion of the contents in the direction of the charging Crub. A small bit of what the bottle contained flew outward. It was slight but very bright, as is characteristic of the Truth.

  The pinch of particles struck the Crub in mid-leap. A startled expression came over his distorted, bloodthirsty face: a look of utter surprise, and of something else.

  Fear.

  The brown body went instantly white—and then it began to disintegrate. Thick muscle became thin haze, then brown wisps, and with a final cry of despair and fury, dissolved away into nothingness. Instead of fang and claw, all that reached Simwan was a putrid breeze. Then, even that was gone. Just as it had been, the Crub was no more, no more was the Crub.

  With the demise of their master, the remaining rodents who had been battling on his behalf let out a collective squeak of distress and scattered, vanishing into the four tunnels. Within moments the only rats that were left in the chamber were dead ones, or pieces thereof. Surveying with evident satisfaction the slaughter piled high around them, Pithfwid and Señor Nutt proceeded to shrink themselves back to size, reclaiming their respective everyday appearances.

  “A fair evening’s butchery,” observed the Chihuahua calmly. He glanced in the direction of the restored Deavy cat. “I am compelled to bow to the efficacy of your alter.”

  Pithfwid was methodically cleaning his whiskers. “Where most enemies are concerned, usually the changed appearance is enough to accomplish the necessary task. I try not to maintain the shape for too long. I worry about the possible carry-over of toothache.”

  Making his way over and around the considerable heaps of dead and rended rodents, ools, ferrets, and other ground-dwellers, Uncle Herkimer rejoined his nephew. The hand that clapped down on Simwan’s shoulder was cold and clammy, but welcome nonetheless.

  “That was fast thinking, my boy.”

  Fighting to keep his fingers from shaking, Simwan restoppered the precious bottle and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “I had to do something.
Dad and Mom always taught us that if we ever found ourselves in a tight situation and there was nothing appropriate at hand to fight back with, to go with whatever was available.” He patted the pocket where the bottle resided safely once again. “It wasn’t a lot more than nothing, but I guess it was enough.”

  Wisdom regarded him out of dead eyes. “A little truth goes a long way. The Crub had to face all that he was, without his pretense of power and strength. And it destroyed him. He could not, in the end, face the truth of what he really was. Now let us make haste to leave this place. Even to a dead man, it reeks of evil.”

  They were joined by the coubet. The girls were drained, their clothing stained. Their clothes would not have looked out of place in the back room of the shop of Tybolt the Butcher, but their smiles were, as always, radiant.

  “What a messy business,” N/Ice observed distastefully as she stepped over a pile of sliced-off rat tails.

  “Sloppy work,” agreed Amber as she kicked aside a pile of dismembered ool segments.

  “Major ick,” concluded Rose while squishing her way through a mass of slippery entrails.

  “How did you find us, Uncle?” Simwan asked his deceased but nonetheless lively relative.

  Even in death, kindliness and concern shone from Uncle Herkimer’s distorted, decomposing features. “When it turned dark and suppertime passed and you still hadn’t returned to the apartment or called in, I started to get worried. So Señor Nutt and I decided to go looking for you.”

  “But how did you find us?” Amber reiterated. “I tried to call you and couldn’t. I mean, this is New York.”

  Herkimer smiled knowingly at her. “When you’ve lived and been dead in the same place for as long as I have, you learn how and where to ask the right questions.” He patted her on the shoulder and, much to her relief, did not bend forward to give her a reassuring kiss. “Now, children, let us leave this hellish hovel. You must all be quite hungry by now.”

  “Actually,” declared Pithfwid as he touched his tummy with a paw, “I’m kind of full. It’s hard to destroy a couple of hundred rats and other wandering meat without inadvertently devouring a few samples of one’s paw-work.”

  “Well, I’m hungry.” Rose’s ready avowal was echoed by her brother and sisters.

  “Not a problem,” Uncle Herkimer assured them. “This is Manhattan, where after midnight even four blood-smeared youngsters and a dead man out for a stroll can find something to eat.” He started toward the drainage tunnel that led back to the Loch and the Ravine. Simwan and his sisters followed. All were very much content with the work they had done that evening and confident in the knowledge that they, as well as the Truth, were once more safe and secure.

  If only.

  It came coiling unhurriedly into the room out of the drainage tunnel in front of them: a dense, slowly expanding black cloud that had grown thicker and much darker with the passage of time. It looked like a cloud of fluffy ink shot through with strips of darker, purer blackness. No words issued from within its dismal depths; no threats were spewed, no hollow sighs resounded. Only an occasional faint, malevolent moan drifted forth, to die as a fading whisper in the still, decaying air of the chamber.

  Uncle Herkimer told them to get back. He did not have to. Simwan and his sisters knew immediately what it was. You could feel it in the air—a kind of tenebrific tingling, as if instead of just a hand or foot your entire body was going to sleep. Despite the fact that the cloud gave off no perceptible odor, Simwan felt suddenly nauseous. Just being in the vicinity of the curling, coiling miasma made his stomach jump. Señor Nutt growled softly as he retreated while Pithfwid hissed challengingly. The fur on the cat’s back and tail was standing straight up, and the little sparks that shot forth from the tips of the hairs were brighter and more intense than usual.

  The Big Bad Dark Thing skulked stealthily into the chamber of death and spread out, flattening itself against the wall pierced by the tunnel from which it had emerged. Where it made contact, even moss and mold shriveled brown and crinkly, lost its grip on the damp stone, and died.

  Still retreating and without taking her eyes off the expanding specter, Amber whispered to her uncle. “What—what does it want?”

  Herkimer had his left arm extended out sideways in front of her and her sisters, as if that might somehow serve to protect them. “It wants to kill you. It wants you to die.”

  “But why?” Rose was at once fascinated and repelled by the dark entity that continued its steady seepage into the chamber.

  “Because it hates what you are, what you represent. Light and laughter, pleasure and knowledge, promise and hope, innocence and virtue.” Herkimer glanced briefly at Simwan. “And truth. Most especially the truth that is youth. Usually, it appears only in nightmares, where it does less harm. Other times it shows itself just before the moment of death. Ords can sense its presence but rarely see it. That you can do so only angers it that much more, and makes it all the more determined that you should breathe your last.”

  Reacting to the presence of the Big Bad Dark Thing that hated Truth, the contents of the bottle buttoned up in Simwan’s jacket pocket had grown hot, threatening to burn his skin. He forced himself to ignore the rising temperature. Having just routed the Crub, he was not about to give up the Truth to a threatening black cloud.

  “How do we fight it?” Remembering how he had defeated the master of rats, he put his right hand over his heart. Through the material of his jacket, he carefully fingered the now radiant bottle sequestered there. “With the Truth?”

  “It will take more than the Truth to cast out the BBDT.” Uncle Herkimer continued to shield the coubet with his decomposing body. “Unlike the Crub, it knows itself, and so does not fear the Truth. It will …”

  The chamber went away. No, Simwan corrected himself as he fought to keep his feet, it had not gone away. The wall behind them remained unaffected, unchanged. But everywhere else, everything else—the ceiling, floor, the other three walls, had been … replaced.

  An immense glowering sky filled with the darkest thunderclouds Simwan had ever seen surged and boiled above them. Thunder boomed and lightning crackled all around. Black lightning. Even so, each sinister flash provided enough of a glow to enable them to make out their surroundings. That made no sense, he reflected. You shouldn’t be able to see by the flash of black lightning. But nothing else they were seeing made any sense, either. Beneath them enormous waves rose and broke, their spectral crests crashing against bottomless troughs. Though the wind howled like the one nor’easter he and his sisters had lived through, they remained motionless, hovering high above the tormented sea and beneath the angry sky.

  Before them and bloated to gigantic proportions, the Big Bad Dark Thing raged and seethed. Its amplified moaning mixed with the wind to create a shuddering in Simwan’s ears. He wanted to clap his hands to the sides of his head to try and shut out that horrible wailing, but he dared not. Now, of all times in his short life, he needed to concentrate, to focus, and to listen to Uncle Herkimer. Wise, old, deceased Uncle Herkimer, who of them all was the only one who might have the knowledge to … He looked to his right.

  Uncle Herkimer was gone.

  He nearly fainted from panic. Only the long hours of training he had undergone at home and at camp—listening to his parents, paying attention to his teachers and tutors—kept him sane and conscious. For the first time in his life, he found himself thankful that he had been assigned homework.

  Uncle Herkimer was still there. He had simply darted behind Simwan faster than the eye could follow, to whisper something to the girls. As Simwan backed up, somehow motivating himself to move through the air, the coubet joined hands to form a circle. White light began to envelop each of them: Rose, Amber, and N/Ice, and to spread out around them. As the brilliant sphere of illumination fully enveloped them and continued to expand, the moaning from the immense rumbling mass of the BBDT rose to
a skirling howl of outrage and fury. For an instant, it seemed as if it was going to draw back, to flee.

  Then it swept forward, and struck.

  As the dark, fiery-eyed mass descended toward them, Uncle Herkimer suddenly went stiff as—well, as a board, anyway. “Throw me!” he yelled heedlessly.

  “What?” As a measured response, Simwan was immediately aware, the one he had vocalized was singularly lacking in usefulness.

  “Throw me, boy, throw me!” In lieu of being able to raise either of the arms that had frozen to his sides, Uncle Herkimer was forced to rely on the urgency in his voice. “Use the right spell!”

  The right spell? Simwan frantically plumbed the depths of his knowledge. What was the right spell for throwing one’s dead uncle at a boiling mass of onrushing evil? Or for that matter, what was the right spell for throwing him at all? There was no time to delay, no time to ponder. No time for careful consideration.

  At school he had excelled in the track events, less so in field. But under Coach Mankewitch’s tutelage, he had sooner or later taken a shot at everything from the pole vault to the shot put. His lanky form, coach and student had jointly decided, was more suited to the high jump.

  And to the javelin.

  Murmuring under his breath what he hoped was the appropriate enchantment while simultaneously seeking comfort in the warmth of the coubet’s expanding circle of light, Simwan bent slightly, picked up his stiffened relative on his mother’s side, and heaved him as hard as he could straight in the direction of the oncoming Big Bad Dark Thing.

  Uncle Herkimer struck the exact center of the oncoming, frenzied black cloud—and vanished within. For a moment, nothing happened. For a moment, Simwan feared that a fate worse than death had befallen their uncle. Then a strange thing happened.

  This was, even in the context of everything that had preceded it on that long, remarkable day, a profound understatement.

  The Big Bad Dark Thing seemed to contort in upon itself. It twisted and coiled, writhed and convulsed. Behind Simwan, the coubet’s singing rose to a fevered pitch. It was an old, old song: from the Traditions, from the Revelations of Otherness. A simple song, but one of great power. So strong was it that its effect was not even dampened by the discordant, high-pitched counterpoint being supplied by one howling dog and one yowling cat.