“Why should you be any different from the usual? But one more thing I should tell you. Please sit down. Now listen to me. We’ve known each other a long time, Lucian. And I know how much this means to you. So whatever happens, or doesn’t happen, I don’t want you to hold me responsible. I’ve only done what I thought you yourself would want me to do. Well, tell me if I was right.”
Dregler stood up again and tucked the book under his arm. “Yes, I suppose. But I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other. Good night, Joseph.”
“One more drink,” offered Gleer.
“No, good night,” answered Dregler.
As he started away from the table, Dregler, to his embarrassment, nearly rapped his head against a massive wooden beam which hung hazardously low in the darkness. He glanced back to see if Gleer had noticed this clumsy mishap. And after merely a single drink! But Gleer was looking the other way, gazing out the window at the tangled tendrils of the elm and the livid complexion cast upon it by the floodlights fixed high upon the outside wall.
For some time Dregler thoughtlessly observed the wind-blown trees outside before turning away to stretch out on his bed, which was a few steps from the window of his room. Beside him now was a copy of his first book, Meditations on the Medusa. He picked it up and read piecemeal from its pages.
The worshipants of the Medusa, including those who clog pages with “insights” and interpretations such as these, are the most hideous citizens of this earth—and the most numerous. But how many of them know themselves as such? Conceivably there may be an inner cult of the Medusa, but then again: who could dwell on the existence of such beings for the length of time necessary to round them up for execution?
It is possible that only the dead are not in league with the Medusa. We, on the other hand, are her allies—but always against ourselves. How does one become her companion . . . and live?
We are never in danger of beholding the Medusa. For that to happen she needs our consent. But a far greater disaster awaits those who know the Medusa to be gazing at them and long to reciprocate in kind. What better definition of a marked man: one who “has eyes” for the Medusa, whose eyes have a will and a fate of their own.
Ah, to be a thing without eyes. What a break to be born a stone!
Dregler closed the book and then replaced it on one of the shelves across the room. On that overcrowded shelf, leather and cloth pressing against cloth and leather, was a fat notebook stuffed with loose pages. Dregler brought this back to the bed with him and began rummaging through it. Over the years the folder had grown enormously, beginning as a few random memoranda—clippings, photographs, miscellaneous references which Dregler copied out by hand—and expanding into a storehouse of infernal serendipity, a testament of terrible coincidence. And the subject of every entry, major and minor, of this inadvertent encyclopedia was the Medusa herself.
Some of the documents fell into a section marked “Facetious,” including a comic book (which Dregler picked off a drugstore rack) that featured the Medusa as a benevolent superheroine who used her hideous powers only on equally hideous foes in a world without beauty. Others belonged under the heading of “Irrelevant,” where was placed a three-inch strip from a decades-old sports page lauding the winning season of “Mr (sic) Medusa”. There was also a meager division of the notebook which had no official designation, but which Dregler could not help regarding as items of “True Horror.” Prominent among these was a feature article from a British scandal sheet: a photoless chronicle of a man’s year-long suspicion that his wife was periodically possessed by the serpent-headed demon, a senseless little guignol which terminated with the wife’s decapitation while she lay sleeping one night and the subsequent incarceration of a madman.
One of the least creditable subclasses of the notebook consisted of pseudo-data taken from the less legitimate propogators of mankind’s knowledge: renegade “scientific” journals, occult-anthropology newsletters, and publications of various Centers of sundry “mythic” studies. Contributions to the notebook from periodicals such as The Excentaur, a back issue of which Dregler stumbled across in none other than Brother’s Books, were collectively categorized as “Medusa and Medusans: Sightings and Material Explanations.” An early number of this publication included an article which attributed the birth of the Medusa, and of all life on Earth, to one of many extraterrestrial visitors, for whom this planet has been a sort of truckstop or comfort station en route to other locales in other galactic systems.
All such enlightening finds Dregler relished with a surly joy, especially those proclamations from the high priests of the human mind and soul, who invariably relegated the Medusa to a psychic underworld where she serves as the image par excellence of romantic panic. But unique among the curiosities he cherished was an outburst of prose whose author seemed to follow in Dregler’s own footsteps: a man after his own heart. “Can we be delivered,” this writer rhetorically queried, “from the ‘life force’ as symbolized by Medusa? Can this energy, if such a thing exists, be put to death, crushed? Can we, in the arena of our being, come stomping out—gladiator-like—net and trident in hand, and, poking and swooping, pricking and swishing, torment this soulless and hideous demon into an excruciating madness, and, finally, annihilate it to the thumbs-down delight of our nerves and to our soul’s deafening applause?” Unfortunately, however, these words were written in the meanest spirit of sarcasm by a critic who parodically reviewed Dregler’s own Meditations on the Medusa when it first appeared twenty years earlier.
But Dregler never sought out reviews of his books, and the curious thing, the amazing thing, was that this item, like all the other bulletins and ponderings on the Medusa, had merely fallen into his hands unbidden. (In a dentist’s office, of all places.) Though he had read widely in the lore of and commentary on the Medusa, none of the material in his rather haphazard notebook was attained through the normal channels of research. None of it was gained in an official manner, none of it foreseen. In the fewest words, it was all a gift of unforeseen circumstances, strictly unofficial matter.
But what did this prove, exactly, that he continued to be offered these pieces to his puzzle? It proved nothing, exactly or otherwise, and was merely a side-effect of his preoccupation with a single subject. Naturally he would be alert to its intermittent cameos on the stage of daily routine. This was normal. But although these “finds” proved nothing, rationally, they always did suggest more to Dregler’s imagination than to his reason, especially when he pored over the collective contents of these archives devoted to his oldest companion.
It was, in fact, a reference to this kind of imagination for which he was now searching as he lay on his bed. And there it was, a paragraph he had once copied in the library from a little yellow book entitled Things Near and Far. “There is nothing in the nature of things,” the quotation ran, “to prevent a man from seeing a dragon or a griffin, a gorgon or a unicorn. Nobody as a matter of fact has seen a woman whose hair consisted of snakes, nor a horse from whose forehead a horn projected; though very early man probably did see dragons—known to science as pterodactyls—and monsters more improbable than griffins. At any rate, none of these zoological fancies violates the fundamental laws of the intellect; the monsters of heraldry and mythology do not exist, but there is no reason in the nature of things nor in the laws of the mind why they should not exist.”
It was therefore in line with the nature of things that Dregler suspended all judgements until he could pay a visit to a certain bookstore.
II
And it was late the following afternoon, emerging from daylong doubts and procrastinations, that Dregler entered a little slot-like shop squeezed between a grey building and a brown one. Nearly within arm’s reach of each other, the opposing walls of the shop were solid with books. The higher shelves were all but unreachable except by means of a very tall ladder, and the highest shelves were apparently not intended for access. Back numbers of old magazines—Blackwoods, The Spectator, the London and Ame
rican Mercurys—were stacked in plump, orderless piles by the front window, their pulpy covers dying in the sunlight. Missing pages from forgotten novels were stuck forever to a patch of floor or curled up in corners. Dregler noted page two hundred and two of The Second Staircase at his feet, and he couldn’t help feeling a sardonic sympathy for the anonymous pair of eyes confronting an unexpected dead end in the narrative of that old mystery. Then again, he wondered, how many thousands of these volumes had already been browsed for the last time. This included, of course, the one he held in his own hand and for which he now succumbed to a brief and absurd sense of protectiveness. Dregler blamed his friend Gleer for this subtle aspect of what he suspected was a farce of far larger and cruder design.
Sitting behind a low counter in the telescopic distance of the rear of the store, a small and flabby man with wire-rimmed glasses was watching him. When Dregler approached the counter and lay the book upon it, the man—Benjamin Brothers—hopped alertly to his feet.
“Help you?” he asked. The bright tone of his voice was the formal and familiar greeting of an old servant.
Dregler nodded, vaguely recognizing the little man from a previous visit to his store some years ago. He adjusted the book on the counter, simply to draw attention to it, and said: “I don’t suppose it was worth my trouble to bring this sort of thing here.”
The man smiled politely. “You’re correct in that, sir. Old texts like that, worth practically nothing to no one. Now down there in my basement,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow doorway, “I’ve got literally thousands of things like that. Other things too, you know. The Bookseller’s Trade called it ‘Benny’s Treasurehouse’. But maybe you’re just interested in selling books today.”
“Well, it seems that as long as I’m here . . .”
“Help yourself, Dr Dregler,” the man said warmly as Dregler started toward the stairway. Hearing his name, Dregler paused and nodded back at the bookdealer; then he proceeded down the stairs.
Dregler now recalled the basement of this store, along with the three lengthy flights of stairs needed to reach its unusual depths. The narrow street-level above was no more than a messy little closet in comparison to the expansive disorder down below: a cavern of clutter, all heaps and mounds, with bulging tiers of bookshelves laid out according to no easily observable scheme. It was a universe constructed solely of the softly jagged brickwork of books. But if the Medusa was a book, how would he ever find it in this chaos? And if it was not, what other definite form could he expect to encounter of a phenomenon which he had avoided precisely defining all these years, one whose most nearly exact emblem was a hideous woman with a head of serpents?
For some time he merely wandered around the crooked aisles and deep niches of the basement. Every so often he took down some book whose appearance caught his interest, unwedging it from an indistinct mass of battered spines and rescuing it before years rooted to the same spot caused its words to mingle with others among the ceaseless volumes of “Benny’s Treasurehouse”, fusing them all into a bonded babble of senseless, unseen pages. Opening the book, he leaned a threadbare shoulder against the towering, filthy stacks. And after spending very little time in the cloistered desolation of that basement, Dregler found himself yawning openly and scratching himself unconsciously, as if he were secluded in some personal sanctum.
But suddenly he became aware of this assumption of privacy which had instilled itself in him, and the feeling instantly perished, perhaps because he suspected its deception. Now his sense of a secure isolation was replaced, at all levels of creaturely response, by its opposite. For hadn’t he written that “personal well-being serves solely to excavate within your soul a chasm which waits to be filled by a landslide of dread, an empty mould whose peculiar dimensions will one day manufacture the shapes of your unique terror.”
Whether or not it was the case, Dregler felt that he was no longer, or perhaps never had been, alone in the chaotic treasurehouse. But he continued acting as if he were, omitting only the yawns and the scratchings. Long ago he had discovered that a mild flush of panic was a condition capable, in certain strange and unknown ways, of seasoning one’s more tedious moments. So he did not immediately attempt to discourage this probably delusory sensation. However, like any state dependent upon the play of delicate and unfathomable forces, Dregler’s mood or intuition was subject to unexpected metamorphoses.
And when Dregler’s mood or intuition passed into a new phase, his surroundings followed close behind: both he and the treasurehouse simultaneously crossed the boundary which divides playful panics from those of a more lethal nature. But this is not to say that one kind of apprehension was more excusable than the other; they were equally opposed to the likings of logic. (“Regarding dread, intensity in itself is no assurance of validity.”) So it meant nothing, necessarily, that the twisting aisles of books appeared to be tightening around the suspicious bibliophile, that the shelves now looked more conspicuously over-swollen with their soft and musty stock, that faint shufflings and shadows seemed to be frolicking like a fugue through the dust and dimness of the underground treasurehouse. Could he, as he turned the next corner, be led to see that which should not be seen?
The next corner, as it happened, was the kind one enters rather than turns—a cul-de-sac of bookshelves forming three walls which nearly reached the rafters of the ceiling. Dregler found himself facing the rear wall like a bad schoolboy in punishment. He gazed up and down its height as if contemplating whether or not it was real, pondering if one could simply pass through it once one had conquered the illusion of its solidity. Just as he was about to turn and abandon this nook, something lightly brushed against his left shoulder. With involuntary suddenness he pivoted in this direction, only to feel the same airy caress now squarely across his back. Continuing counterclockwise, he executed one full revolution until he was standing and staring at someone who was standing and staring, back at him from the exact spot where he, a mere moment before, had been standing.
The woman’s high-heeled boots put her face at the same level as his, while her turban-like hat made her appear somewhat taller. It was fastened on the right side, Dregler’s left, with a metal clasp studded with watery pink stones. From beneath her hat a few strands of straw-coloured hair sprouted onto a triangle of unwrinkled forehead. Then a pair of tinted eyeglasses, then a pair of unlipsticked lips, and finally a high-collared coat which descended as a dark, elegant cylinder down to her boots. She calmly withdrew a pad of paper from one of her pockets, tore off the top page, and presented it to Dregler.
“Sorry if I startled you,” it said.
After reading the note, Dregler looked up at the woman and saw that she was gently chopping her hand against her neck, but only a few times and merely to indicate some vocal disability. Laryngitis? wondered Dregler, or something chronic. He examined the note once again and observed the name, address, and telephone number of a company that serviced furnaces and air-conditioners. This, of course, told him nothing.
The woman then tore off a second pre-written message from the pad and pressed it into Dregler’s already paper-filled palm smiling at him very deliberately as she did so. (How he wanted to see what her eyes were doing!) She shook his hand a little before taking away hers and making a silent, scentless exit. So what was that reek Dregler detected in the air when he stared down at the note, which simply read: “Regarding M.”
And below this word-and-a-half message was an address, and below that was a specified time on the following day. The handwriting was nicely formed, the most attractive Dregler had ever seen.
In light of the past few days, Dregler almost expected to find still another note waiting for him when he returned home. It was folded in half and stuffed underneath the door to his apartment. “Dear Lucian,” it began, “just when you think things have reached their limit of ridiculousness, they become more ridiculous still. In brief—we’ve been had! Both of us. And by my wife, no less, along with a friend of hers. (A blond-haired ant
hropology prof whom I think you may know, or know of; at any rate she knows you, or at least your writings, maybe both.) I’ll explain the whole thing when we meet, which I’m afraid won’t be until my wife and I get back from another jaunt. (Eyeing some more islands, this time in the Pacific.)
“I was hoping that you would be skeptical enough not to go to the bookstore, but after finding you not at home I feared the worst. Hope you didn’t have your hopes up, which I don’t think has ever happened to you anyway. No harm done, in any case. The girls explained to me that it was a quasi-scientific hoax they were perpetrating, a recondite practical joke. If you think you were taken in, you can’t imagine how I was. You can’t believe how real and serious they made the whole ruse seem to me. But if you got as far as the bookstore, you know by now that the punch line to the joke was a pretty weak one. The whole point, as I was told, was merely to stir your interest just enough to get you to perform some mildly ridiculous act. I’m curious to know how Mr B. Bros. reacted when the distinguished author of Meditations on the Medusa and other ruminative volumes presented him with a hopelessly worthless old textbook.
“Seriously, I hope it caused you no embarrassment, and both of us, all three of us, apologize for wasting your time. See you soon, tanned and pacified by a South Sea Eden. And we have plans for making the whole thing up to you, that’s a promise.”
The note was signed, of course, by Joseph Gleer.
But Gleer’s confession, though it was evident to Dregler that he himself believed it, was no more convincing than his “lead” on a Bookstore Medusa. Because this lead, which Dregler had not credited for a moment, led further than Gleer, who no longer credited it, had knowledge of. So it seemed that while his friend had now been placated by a false illumination, Dregler was left to suffer alone the effects of a true state of unknowing. And whoever was behind this hoax, be it a true one or a false, knew the minds of both men very well.
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