Rook & Tooth and Claw

by Graham Masterton

  George said, “You’re upset, you know. I wouldn’t go so far as to say deranged. But you should think about this in the morning.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about it now.”

  “Well, let’s go around to see Valerie and see if the sight of your newly-decorated apartment can take your mind off it.”

  Jim took hold of George’s hand, and gripped it tight, and George was vaguely embarrassed. “You know something, George. I never saw anything like this before. I’ve seen ghosts, and spirits, and I’ve seen a man leave his body and walk through the city for hours on end, with cars passing right through his body like he wasn’t even there. But this – no, this is different. This isn’t just a spiritual parlour-trick. This is a force that comes right out of the air we breathe and the ground we tread on. This is serious power, George. This is real Native American magic.”

  George clapped him on the back. “I’ll say one thing for you, Jim. You never do things by halves. When you go bananas, you go seriously bananas. Did you try Prozac yet?”

  “Don’t you think I have enough ups in my life?”

  “Right now, probably yes.”

  “Just let me ask you something. Even if you don’t believe a single word I’ve said, will you accept that I’m sincere?”

  “Sure, yes, I believe you’re sincere.”

  “Then support me, help me. Even if you think I’ve lost the plot.”

  Quite unexpectedly, George put his arms around him and hugged him. His belly was enormous. His beard scratched, and he smelled of kebabs and Sure deodorant. “Don’t you worry, Jim. Whatever gibberish you talk, George is right behind you.”

  They drove to Electric Avenue in George’s huge old Silverado pick-up. For Jim, it was very strange going back there, after the feline formerly known as Tibbles had been killed, and his apartment had been wrecked. He felt as if this wasn’t his home any more, and in a sense it wouldn’t be, ever again. Once you’ve been burgled, once you’ve been vandalized, your home loses its sense of safety, and adding more locks makes it feel even less secure.

  “Go take a look at your apartment, then come on down,” George told him. “They’re doing a great job for you. You’ll like it.”

  Jim climbed the steps to the second-story landing and walked along to his front door. He saw a blind twitch just opposite, and he knew that it was Myrlin spying on him, to make sure that he wasn’t spying on him. He hesitated for a moment and then he inserted the key into the lock. There was a strong smell of fresh paint and carpentry. He switched on the lights and saw that George was right: the walls had been newly decorated in a color that Jim could only describe as “faded camel”. All of the gouges in the plaster had been smoothed over and the kitchen cabinet doors replaced.

  Underneath a large dusty sheet of heavy-duty plastic all of his possessions were heaped: his books, his pictures, his CDs, even one of his cardigans. He felt as if he were walking into the apartment of somebody who had recently died.

  He turned to leave when he saw his grandfather standing by the window. He looked very much older tonight, his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets. Jim approached him and said, “Grandpa? What did you come back for? Are you all right?”

  “All right? No, I don’t think I am,” said his grandfather.

  “Then what’s wrong? Tell me. My friend said that relatives don’t come back unless it’s something serious.”

  “How does your friend know that?”

  “Because she’s dead, just like you. Her name’s Alice Vaizey and – well, you probably won’t believe this, but she talks to me through the woman who took over her apartment when she died.”

  “Why shouldn’t I believe it? It’s the kind of thing that happens all the time. The dead, clinging onto the living.”

  “So what’s wrong?” asked Jim. He was so tempted to touch his grandfather – just to take hold of his hand, and feel those dry old fingers and those veins like wriggling roots. Just to feel that soft, well-shaved cheek. He could even smell his grandfather’s hairdressing lotion, and his tobacco.

  “That thing I warned you about – it came, didn’t it?” said his grandfather. “That old, cold bristling thing.”

  Jim nodded. “It came all right. Look around you. They’ve just finished cleaning up the mess.”

  “This isn’t the only mess, is it, Jim?”

  “No, grandpa, it isn’t. There was a woman that I was in love with. Susan Randall. The thing killed her, too.”

  His grandfather sucked at his false teeth. “I’ve seen Susan: that’s why I came.”

  “You’ve seen her? Like, where?”

  “Jim, there isn’t any where when you’re dead. One minute bells are ringing and you’re looking out over these wet, tiled rooftops. Next minute you’re riding the Eighth Avenue Local. Then, before you know it, you’re walking by the shore at Hilton Head, tossing sticks for your dog.”

  “How was she?” Jim wanted to know. “Come on, grandpa. I tried to save her. I hope she knows that.”

  “She didn’t know anything much. She was very shocked, as folks usually are when their bodies have been beheaded. It takes them quite a while to get over the way they died. But she said one thing to me, and she meant it, Jim. She said, ‘Tell Jim to go as far away from West Grove College as he can. Tell him to go to Europe. Tell him to go to Japan. Tell him to go anyplace that beast can’t reach him, because it will.’

  Jim said, “Do you think you might see her again? Do you think you might pass on a message?”

  His grandfather gave him a quick, impatient look. “I’m not a go-between, Jim. I’m not some kind of spiritual mail-carrier.”

  “All the same, do you think you could tell her that I love her, and that I won’t stop loving her? Do you think you could tell her that I’m going to make sure that she gets justice?”

  “Justice doesn’t mean too much to the dead, Jim. Justice is only for the living.”

  “All the same, can you tell her?”

  His grandfather shrugged. “I guess I could try. No guarantees, though.”

  At that moment there was a knock at the door and Miss Neagle came in, dressed in a black ruffled negligee and strappy high-heeled slippers. “Jim?” she said. “George and I were wondering if you’d like to come down and join us for a drink. He said you had a very interesting time in Arizona.”

  She suddenly stopped and blinked and stared at Jim’s grandfather. “Oh—” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you had company.”

  Startled, Jim said, “You can see him?”

  “Of course. He keeps flickering in and out of focus like an old TV, but I can see him, for sure.”

  “Who are you to call me an old TV?” Jim’s grandfather demanded.

  “Mrs Alice Vaizey, I think, grandpa,” said Jim. He turned to Miss Neagle and said, “Right?”

  Miss Neagle smiled. “That’s right. I couldn’t see him, not on my own, but Mrs Vaizey can. That’s why he’s so flickery.”

  “What’s going on here?” asked Jim’s grandfather, suspiciously. “Is this the friend you were telling me about? The one who’s dead?”

  “That’s right, grandpa. Miss Neagle here took over her apartment, and her spirit, too.”

  Jim’s grandfather slowly approached Miss Neagle and stood right in front of her. He lifted his left hand and held it an inch or so away from her forehead. It was obvious that he wanted to touch her, but he couldn’t. “I can see her,” he said. “I can actually see her. It’s like there are two women standing here, one inside the other.”

  Without any warning, tears formed in Miss Neagle’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. “Do you know something?” she said, “That’s the first time that anybody’s seen me, since I died. I was beginning to think that I was invisible to everyone, even to other spirits.”

  “Well, now, you shouldn’t have to worry about that,” Jim’s grandfather comforted her. “I can see you … I can see you as clear as daylight.”

  “So what do I look li
ke?” asked Miss Neagle, in the same coquettish way that Mrs Vaizey would have said it.

  “You’re slim, very slim, like a dancer. Not like this lady at all. And you’re a very handsome woman indeed.”

  “Well, you’re very complimentary,” said Miss Neagle. “And even if we never meet again—”

  Jim’s grandfather smiled at her, and blew her a kiss. Jim said, “I don’t believe this, grandpa. You come here to give me a warning and you end up flirting with the spirit of the woman who used to live downstairs.”

  “Jim, that’s not flirting. When people die they need comfort – more comfort than they ever needed when they were alive. It’s bad enough for a woman to grow old and lose her looks, so that nobody notices her any more. What do you think it’s like when you die, and you can’t get any kind of response from anybody? You’re nothing; you’re invisible. You think that’s good for your morale? You don’t know how lucky I am that I have a grandson who can actually see me.”

  He suddenly looked more serious. “Listen, Jim, this thing wants your blood and you’re going to have to do one of two things. Either you’re going to have to pack your bags and go someplace where it can’t follow you; or else you’re going to have to find a way of beating it.”

  Miss Neagle said, “Today was the day you were supposed to die, Jim; and you’re not dead yet, are you? So if I were you I’d have courage.”

  “I’m as good as dead,” Jim told her. “So long as that thing is still in this world, it’s going to be coming after me.”

  “Then go,” said his grandfather. “It’s the only answer. Go.”

  Jim suddenly realized why his grandfather had said that he was a failure. He was a failure. Whenever any kind of challenge appeared on the horizon, his answer had always been to turn on his heel and walk very quickly in the opposite direction. Jim wasn’t like that. Jim was his mother’s son, and his mother had always stood up for herself. She had refused to help his father when he had started up his marine insurance business, and taught herself to play the piano instead. “If you don’t get rich on your own, then you don’t deserve to be rich. But you do, and you will, and if I don’t learn to play the piano, what will all your rich friends listen to, when we we entertain them at dinner?”

  Jim said, “No, grandpa. I’m going to stay. The Native Americans are always talking about tribal honor. Catherine’s my student. She belongs to Special Class II. That’s enough of a tribe for me to feel honourable about.”

  His grandfather looked at him for a long time, and then nodded. “That’s bravely spoken, Jim. It looks like all I can do is to wish you all the luck in this world; and a hundred times more in the next.”

  “Goodbye, grandpa,” said Jim. “I won’t forget this, I promise you.”

  His grandfather went to the open door and stepped out into the darkness. Jim followed him and watched him walking along the balcony. His image seemed gradually to fade, so that by the time he reached the steps the streetlights were shining right through him. He stopped, turned, and looked back at Jim, and gave him a wave. He hadn’t even taken one step downward before he vanished, and there was nothing in the night but streetlights and automobile horns and somebody laughing.

  “Jim,” said Miss Neagle. “Come down for a beer.”

  “I don’t think so, Valerie. I’m tired enough already.”

  “But George can’t dance any of those Greek dances by himself.”

  “All right,” Jim acquiesced. He guessed that anything would be better than lying on George’s couch listening to the icebox rattling all night – unable to sleep, and thinking about Susan’s head flying off.

  Miss Neagle entwined her arm around his. “I was never sure about Greeks, you know. But then I met George, and I thought to myself, ‘What was good enough for Jackie must be good enough for me.’ You don’t happen to know the Greek for ‘I love your beard,’ do you?”

  * * *

  Before he went back to college the next morning he called Susan’s brother Bruce, who was a screenwriter who lived in Sherman Oaks.

  “Susan’s staying in Arizona for a few more days.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Well, I thought I’d better tell you, just in case you were worried.”

  “Why should I be worried? She’s a grown-up now, the last time I looked.”

  “OK, then. But I thought I’d better tell you, that’s all.”

  There was a pause. Then, “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Wrong, what do you mean?”

  “Well, Susan and me, we hardly ever speak to each other. We have a very different view of life, if you understand me. She thinks I’m a trashy materialist and I think she should try sailing round the world with one of her antique maps and see where that gets her.”

  “Oh. Well, OK.”

  He drove to college feeling strange, mainly because everything looked so normal and familiar. The morning smog hadn’t yet cleared and the day had a soft, blurry appearance, like an Impressionist painting. He parked in the faculty parking-lot and waited for his car to backfire, which it didn’t. He climbed out, and he had almost reached the main entrance when it let off a tremendous detonation that echoed all around the buildings.

  Everybody in the staff room was eager to find out all about his trip to the reservations, but he found it very hard to talk about it. He kept repeating, “Sure, it was great. Fascinating. Susan loved it so much she decided to stay out there for a few more days.”

  Richard Bercovici, the social studies lecturer, came up smelling strongly of pipe-tobacco. “What was your view of Navajo alcoholism? From what I’ve read, drunkenness is the blight of the reservations.”

  Jim said, “I think, Richard – if you saw what I saw, you’d need a drink, too.”

  At last, however, it was time for his first class, and he walked with some relief along the corridor to Special Class II. Almost the whole class were already there, except for Jane Firman, who always had difficult periods, and Jim was sensitive enough not to ask where she was. Sue-Robin was finishing off painting her nails in pearlized pink and Sherma was noisily rustling a large brown grocery bag.

  “Sherma? Any chance of hearing ourselves think?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Rook. I’m supposed to be baking applesauce cookies with Mrs Evers afterward and I think I forgot my raisins.”

  Mark was sitting behind David Littwin, looking uncharacteristically pale and subdued – much to the frustration of his best friend Ricky, who kept trying to tell him stupid jokes. “‘Doctor, I keep thinking I’m a spaniel.’ ‘Well, just get up on the couch.’ ‘I can’t. I’m not allowed.’” Sharon was wearing a tight black dress with jet necklaces and black ribbons in her hair. When Jim came in, they both looked at him with the intensity of people who had shared a traumatic experience, and needed very badly to talk about it.

  Jim said, “You’ll be pleased to hear that our short field trip to Arizona was extremely arduous and that you didn’t miss much except some spectacularly breathtaking scenery and some spectacularly disgusting food. We did however learn quite a lot about Navajo mythology and I’m very keen to discover what you were able to find out from your resources here.

  “Unfortunately, Catherine White Bird decided to stay on for a while to – well, to visit some people she knew. So we’re missing her input, which is a pity. And we’re also missing Ms Randall, who wanted to stay for a while, too, so that she could—”

  He hesitated, and saw Mark and Sharon looking at him and frowning. He hated lying – especially to his class – but he knew that there was no alternative, not until the Changing Bear Maiden had been exorcized for good.

  “– so that she could look for some historical maps, you know what she is about maps.”

  Beattie McCordic put up her hand and said, “How did you find, like, the way that Navajo women are as opposed to the men? Do you think they’re as equal as we are – you knew, here in California – or not so equal?”

  “Nobody’s as equal as you are, Beattie
!” said Seymour Williams.

  “Good literary reference,” said Jim. “What’s it from, Seymour?”

  “What?” asked Seymour, in bewilderment.

  “George Orwell’s Animal Farm. ‘All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others.’”

  “Oh, right,” said Seymour, with a grin, and the whole class hooted in derision.

  “Anyway, to answer your question, Beattie, from what I’ve seen the Navajo woman has a very different standing within her family to that of women in other parts of the country. Navajo men still seem to think that they’re the undisputed head of the household. That’s a traditional, historical view. But the reality is that there’s so much unemployment that it’s the women who hold the family unit together – the women who have the strength – the women who make the really fundamental day-to-day decisions.”

  Mark said, “That may be, but you have to admit that it’s pretty tough trying to be a great warrior and hunter and everything when there’s nobody to fight and nothing to hunt. I mean, what are you going to do, maraud the 7-Eleven?”

  “But let’s go back a bit and talk about their history and their mythology,” said Jim. “Some of them say that it’s the collapse of their magic that led to their present plight. Did anybody manage to find out anything about Navajo legends?”

  Sue-Robin said, “I found about a giant demon called Big Monster. He was half as tall as the tallest fir tree, and had an ugly face with blue and black stripes. He wore a suit of armour made from flint stones knitted together with all the guts and the sinews of the people that he killed.”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Amanda.

  “It’s all right,” Jim told her. “It’s only a story.” Thinking, as he said it, of the way that John Three Names’ body had been pulled apart, and all his insides emptied onto the floor.

  Sue-Robin said, “Big Monster was finally caught by two brave gods called the Twins. They tried to sneak up behind him while he was drinking a large lake, but he saw them reflected in the last drops of water. He shot two enormous arrows at them, but they caught hold of a rainbow and used it as a shield. Big Monster ran after them, but just as he was about to catch up with them, a bolt of lightning struck him dead. The Twins cut off his head and threw it to the east. It took root in the ground, and it’s still there today, called Cabezon Peak.”