Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4

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Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Page 6

by Vol 4 (v1. 2) (epub)


  Walton shivered. His arms were numb, his shoulders a tight, aching band. His legs where he braced against the footrest quivered with fatigue. Still he held, even when the fish ran to the far end of the swamp. If he could keep it away from the snags he could wear it down. The fish turned, the line slackened, Walton pumped the rod up and down. He regained the lost line. The water hissed as the cording cut through it. The fish headed for the bottom.

  Tiredly, Walton heaved, turned the fish. The wagon creaked.

  "Blessed are they that walk in the path of righteousness," said Bunyan.

  The ghosts came in over the slough straight at them. Monkey-demons began to chatter in the woods. Eyes peered from the bole of every tree. Bunyan's candle was the only light. Something walked heavily on a limb at the woods' edge, bending it. Marburton screamed and ran up the road.

  Percy was on his feet. Ghosts and banshees flew at him, veering away at the last instant.

  "You have doubts," said Bunyan to him. "You are assailed. You think yourself unworthy."

  Percy trotted up the stony road, ragged shapes fluttering in the air behind him, trying to tug his hair. Skeletons began to dance across the slough, acting out pantomimes of life, death, and love. The Seven Deadly Sins manifested themselves.

  Hell yawned open to receive them all.

  Then the sun went down.

  "Before you join the others, Charles," said Walton, pumping the rod, "cut away my coat and collar."

  "You'll freeze," said Cotton, but climbed in the wagon and cut the coat up the back and down the sleeves. It and the collar fell away.

  "Good luck, Father Walton," he said. Something plucked at his eyes. "We go to town for help."

  "Be honest and trustworthy all the rest of your days," said Izaak Walton. Cotton looked stunned. Something large ran down from the woods, through the wagon, and up into the trees. Cotton ran up the hill. The thing loped after him.

  Walton managed to gain six inches on the fish.

  Grinning things sat on the taut line. The air was filled with meteors, burning, red, thick as snow. Huge worms pushed themselves out of the ground, caught and ate demons, then turned inside out. The demons flew away.

  Everything in the darkness had claws and horns.

  "And lo! the seventh seal was broken, and there was quietness on the earth for the space of half an hour," read Bunyan.

  He had lit his third candle.

  Walton could see the water again. A little light came from somewhere behind him. The noises of the woods diminished. A desultory ghost or skeleton flitted grayly by. There was a calm in the air.

  The fish was tiring. Walton did not know how long he had fought on, or with what power. He was a human ache, and he wanted to sleep. He was nodding.

  "The townsmen come," said Bunyan. Walton stole a fleeting glance behind him. Hundreds of people came quietly and cautiously through the woods, some extinguishing torches as he watched.

  Walton cranked in another ten feet of line. The fish ran, but only a short way, slowly, and Walton reeled him back. It was still a long way out, still another hour before he could bring it to gaff. Walton heard low talk, recognized Percy's voice. He looked back again. The people had pikes, nets, a small cannon. He turned, reeled the fish, fighting it all the way.

  "You do not love God!" said Bunyan suddenly, shutting his Bible.

  "Yes I do!" said Walton, pulling as hard as he could. He gained another foot. "I love God as much as you."

  "You do not!" said Bunyan. "I see it now."

  "I love God!" yelled Walton and heaved the rod.

  A fin broke the frothing water.

  "In your heart, where God can see from His high throne, you lie!" said Bunyan.

  Walton reeled and pulled. More fin showed. He quit cranking.

  "God forgive me!" said Walton. "It's fishing I love."

  "I thought so," said Bunyan. Reaching in his pack, he took out a pair of tin snips and cut Walton's line.

  Izaak fell back in the wagon.

  "John Bunyan, you son of a bitch!" said the Sheriff. "You're under arrest for hampering the King's business. I'll see you rot."

  Walton watched the coils of line on the surface slowly sink into the brown depths of the Slough of Despond.

  He began to cry, fatigue and numbness taking over his body.

  "I denied God," he said to Cotton. "I committed the worst sin." Cotton covered him with a blanket.

  "Oh Charles, I denied God."

  "What's worse," said Cotton, "you lost the fish."

  Percy and Marburton helped him up. The carters hitched the wagons, the horses now docile. Bunyan was being ridden back to jail by constables, his tinker's bag clanging against the horse's side.

  They put the crying Walton into the cart, covered him more, climbed in. Some farmers helped them get the carts over the rocks.

  Walton's last view of the slough was of resolute and grim-faced men staring at the water and readying their huge grapples, their guns, their cruel, hooked nets.

  They were on the road back to town. Walton looked up into the trees, devoid of ghosts and demons. He caught a glimpse of the blue Chiltern Hills.

  "Father Izaak," said Cotton. "Rest now. Think of spring. Think of clear water, of leaping trout."

  "My dreams will be haunted by God the rest of my days," he said tiredly. Walton fell asleep.

  He dreamed of clear water, leaping trouts.

  The End

  © 1982 by Howard Waldrop. First published in Universe 12, edited by Terry Carr, Doubleday & Co., Inc. 1982

  Can These Bones Live?

  Manly Wade Wellman

  I'd dropped my blanket roll and soogin sack and guitar and sat quiet on the granite lump as those eight men in rough country clothes fetched their burden along. It was a big chest of new-sawed planks, pale in the autumn afternoon, four men on each side.

  As they tramped, they watched me. I got to my feet. I reckoned I was taller than any of them, probably wider through the shoulders. I wore old pants and boots and rumply hat, but I'd shaved that morning and hoped I looked respectable.

  They came close to me amongst those tree-strung heights and set the chest down with a bump. I figured it to be nine feet long and three feet wide and another three high. Rope loops were spiked to the sides for handles. The lid was fastened with a hook and staple, like what you use on a shed door. One of the eight stared me up and down. He was a chunky, grizzled man in a wide black hat, bib overalls, and a denim jacket.

  "Hidy," he drawled, and spit on the ground. "What you up to here?"

  "I was headed for a place called Chaw Hollow," I replied him.

  They all stared. "How you name yourself?" asked the one who had spoken.

  "Just call me John."

  "What do you follow, John?" asked another man.

  I smiled my friendliest. "Well, mostly I study things. This morning, back yonder at that settlement, I heard tell about a big skeleton that had been turned up on a Chaw Hollow farm."

  "You a government man?" the grizzled one inquired me.

  "You mean, look for blockade stills?" I shook my head. "Not me. Call me a truth seeker, somebody who wonders himself about riddles in this life."

  "A conjure man?" put in another of the bunch.

  "Not me," I said again. "I've met up with that sort in my time, helped put two-three of them out of mischief. Call that part of what I follow."

  "My name's Embro Hallcott," said the grizzled one. "If you came to poke 'round them bones, you're too late."

  I waited for him to go on, and he went on:

  "I dug them bones up on my place, a-scooping out for a fish pond. Some of us reckoned that, whoair he was, he should ought to be buried in holy ground, yonder at Stumber Creek church house. So we made him a box, and that's where we're a-going with him now."

  "Let me give you a hand," I said, and slung my guitar and other things to my shoulders.

  "He's a stranger man, Mr. Embro," said the scrawny man.

  "Sure, but he looks
powerful for strength." Hallcott raked me with his eye. "And you feel puny today, Oat. All right, John, grab a hold there where Oat's been a-heaving on this here thing."

  I shoved my hand through the loop and we hoisted the coffin. It was right heavy, at that. I heard the others grunt as we took the trail through the ravine. On the trees, autumn leaves showed yellow, different reds, and so on, like flowers. Half a mile, maybe, we bore our load along.

  "Yonder we are, boys," said Hallcott.

  We came out into a hollow amongst shaggy heights that showed rocky knobs. One, I thought, looked like a head and shoulders. Another jabbed up like a finger, another curved like a hawk bill. The lower ground into which we tramped was tufted with trees, with a trickle of water through it. Beside this stood a grubby white house with a steeple. Stumber Creek Church, I figured it to be.

  Hallcott, at a front loop, steered us into a weedy tract with gravestones here and yonder. "Set her down," he wheezed, and we did so. "Yonder comes Preacher Travis Melick. I done sent him the word to meet up with us here."

  From the church house ambled a gaunt man in a jimswinger coat, a-carrying a book covered with black leather. Hallcott walked toward him. "Evening, Preacher," he said. "Proud to have you here."

  "The grave's been made ready," said the other in a deep-down voice, and nodded to where a long, dark hole gaped amongst the weeds. Then he faced me. "Don't believe I know this gentleman."

  "Allows he's named John," grated the scrawny one called Oat.

  "I've heard of John," said Preacher Melick, and held out his skinny hand. "Heard of good things you've done, sir. Welcome amongst us."

  Hallcott's crinkly face got easy. "If you say he's all right, Preacher, that makes him all right," he said. "I'll tell you true, he made better than a good hand, a-wagging this coffin the last part of the way."

  We hiked the coffin to the side of the grave. On the bank of fresh dirt lay three shovels. Oat touched the hook on the lid.

  "Ain't we supposed to view the body?" he wondered us. "Ain't that the true old way?"

  "I've done seen the thing," snapped out Hallcott.

  "Open it for a moment if you feel that's proper," said the preacher man.

  Oat worked the hook out of the staple and hoisted the lid. The hinges creaked. "Wonder who he was," he said.

  The bones inside were loose from one another and half-wrapped in a Turkey Track quilt, but I saw they were laid out in order. They were big, the way Hallcott had said, big enough for an almighty big bear. I had a notion that the arms were right long; maybe all the bones were long. Thick, too. The skull at the head of the coffin was like a big gourd, with caves of eyeholes and two rows of big, lean teeth. Hallcott banged the lid shut and hooked it again.

  "That there's enough of a look to last youins all day and all night," he growled round at the others.

  "Brothers," said Preacher Melick, a-opening his book, "we're here to bury the remains of a poor lost creature. We don't even know his name. Yet I've searched out what I hope is the right text for this burying."

  He put his knobby finger to the page. "Book of Ezekiel," he said. "Thirty-seventh chapter, third verse. 'And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God, thou knowest.'"

  He closed his book. "The Lord God knoweth all things. We're taught that after death will come the life we deserve. Let us pray."

  We bowed our heads down. Preacher Melick said, "In the midst of life we are in death," and so on. When he finished, I said, "Amen," and so did Hallcott and two-three others.

  "Now lower the coffin," said Preacher Melick.

  We took hold and set it in the grave. It fitted right snug, its lid was just inches below surface. Preacher Melick sprinkled a handful of dirt. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he repeated, and then we all said the Lord's Prayer together. Finally the preacher man smiled 'round at us. The service was over.

  Three men shoveled in the earth. It took just minutes to fill the grave up.

  Hallcott offered some crumpled money bills to Preacher Melick, who waved them away.

  "You took it on yourselves to make the stranger a coffin and bring him here to rest," he said. "The least duty I can do is speak comfortable words without expectation of pay. John, to judge from the gear you brought, you're a-looking for lodging for the night. Will you be my guest?"

  "Thanks, maybe later," I said. "I reckon I'll wait here a spell."

  "If you come later on, it's half a mile up the trail the far side of the church."

  He walked away with his book. The coffin-makers headed the other direction. The sun was a-dropping red to the edge of the western heights.

  One of the shovels had been fetched to lean under a fair-sized walnut tree. I put down my stuff next to the roots and sat with my back against the trunk. On the silver strings of my guitar I made a few chords to whisper. The air got gloomy.

  "It's kindly creepy a night," said a voice at my elbow. That quick I was up on my feet. Embro Hallcott stood there, his crinkly face a-smiling.

  "For a man your height, you move quick as a cat, John," he said. "I done heard you tell Preacher Melick you'd stay 'round, so I decided myself to stay too, for whatever's up."

  "What do you reckon's up?" I inquired him.

  "If you don't know how to answer that, neither do I."

  I sat down under the tree again, and Hallcott hunkered down beside me. He dragged out a twist of home-cured tobacco and bit off a chunk the size of half a dollar.

  "I was right interested by Preacher Melick's text from Ezekiel," I said. "All that about could these bones live."

  "Ezekiel," Hallcott repeated me, a-folding his ridgy hands on the knees of his overalls. "I done read in that, some time back. Strange doings in Ezekiel—the wheels in the wheels. Some folks reckon that means what they call UFOs."

  "They were unknown and they flew, so they were UFOs all right," I nodded him. "And all those prophecies about nation after nation, and the brass man a-walking round to measure Jerusalem. And I've heard it explained that the four faces of the living creatures meant the Four Gospels. But the strangest of all the things is the Valley of Dry Bones, where the bones join together and come to life."

  A moon rose up and shone down on the burial ground. Hallcott moved to pull together some pieces of wood and light them with a match. I went to the stream and dipped water in my canteen cup and set it on a rock where it could heat. "I don't reckon you brought aught for supper," I said.

  "I've done without no supper before this."

  "I've got something left from my noon lunch." I pawed through my soogin and came up with two sandwiches wrapped in foil. "Home-cured ham on white bread."

  Hallcott took one and thanked me kindly. As the water grew hot, I trickled in instant coffee and stirred it with a twig. We ate and passed the cup back and forth.

  "I appreciate this, John," said Hallcott as he swallowed down his last bite. "How long you aim to stop here?"

  "That depends."

  "I reckon you'll agree with me, them bones we buried were right curious. Great big ones, and long arms, like on an ape."

  "Or maybe on Sasquatch," I said. "Or Bigfoot."

  "You believe in them tales."

  "I always wonder myself if there's not truth in air tale. And as for bones—I recollect something the Indians called Kalu, off in a place named Hosea's Hollow. Bones a-rattling round, and sure death to a natural man.'

  "You believe that, too?"

  "Believe it? I saw it happen one time. Only Kalu got somebody else, not me."

  "Can these bones live?" Hallcott repeated the text. "Ain't there an old song about that, the bones a-coming together alive?"

  "I've sung it in my time," I said, and picked up my guitar and struck out the tune. "It goes like this:

  Connect these bones, dry bones, dry bones,

  Connect these bones, dry bones, dry bones,

  Connect these bones, dry bones, dry bones,

  Hear the word of the Lord."

  Hallco
tt sang the verse with me, his voice rough and husky:

  The toe bone's connected to the foot bone,

  The foot bone's connected to the heel bone,

  The heel bone's connected to the ankle bone,

  Hear the word of the Lord.

  And we sang the rest of it together, up to the end:

  The shoulder bone's connected to the neck bone,

  The neck bone's connected to the jaw bone,

  The jaw bone's connected to the head bone,

  Hear the word of the Lord.

  Connect these bones, dry bones, dry bones,

  Connect these—

  Hallcott broke off then, and so did I. "John," he said, "looky yonder where we buried him. What's that there white stuff?"

  I saw it, too. In the shine of the moon above the grave stirred a pale something or other.

  It made just a sneaky blur, taller than a tall man. It came toward us with a ripple in it.

  "Mist," Hallcott stuttered. "Comes from that there fresh-dug-up dirt—"

  "No," I said, "that's no mist."

  I leant my guitar to the walnut tree and got up on my feet as whatever it was came nearer, started to make itself into a shape.

  I heard Hallcott say a quick cuss word, and then there was a scrambly noise, like as if he was a-trying to make his way off from there on hands and knees. I faced toward whatair the shape was, because I reckoned I had to.

  As it came slowly along, the moonlight hit it fair. It looked scaffolded some way. That was because it was just bones. I could see a sort of baskety bunch of ribs, and big, stout arm bones with almighty huge hands a-hanging down below crooked knees. The shallowy skull had deep, dark eyeholes. The long-toothed jaw sank itself down and then snapped shut again. The skull turned on its neck bone and gave me a long, long look.

  Then it reached out its right hand with finger bones the size of table knives, and laid hold on a young tree and yanked it out by the roots, without air much a-trying. It stood and tore off branches, easy as you'd peel the shucks from an ear of corn. It made itself a club thataway, and hiked it over the low skull and moved to close in on me again.

 

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