by Peter Straub
Richard looked up and saw two of the little dragons tumbling out of the sky like dying bats.
He did not know if he saw with Patsy’s eyes or his own.
His mind poured helplessly toward hers—that was how it felt, as though their different minds were two liquids mingling in the same jug. Instantly they had gone far past intimacy into a realm of utter knowledge and acceptance, some beating pink chamber where they were totally revealed: as if he and Patsy McCloud had been married for forty years, and each knew what toothpaste the other preferred, how they liked their eggs, their favorite jokes and favorite novels, which movies they cherished and which they loathed, which people they loved and hated. All of this knowledge was somehow sexual, dyed in sexual colors—Patsy’s sexuality informed it all. It was as though she had turned herself inside out and impressed her nerves and bloodstream into his system.
A squirrel-sized baby dragon fell beside his feet with the noise of a crumpling paper bag; seconds after it struck, smoke poured out of its leathery skin.
Graham Williams and Tabby Smithfield stood at the bottom of the slope down to the cave, exposed to the dragon; Patsy was halfway down the hill, isolated, it seemed, by the act of spirit Richard had not yet even begun to understand. He could hear Graham and Tabby singing that crazy song. A thick cocoon of smoke now completely enveloped the little dragon at Richard’s feet. Sounds of sizzling and frying came from the solid-looking package of smoke. Patsy was singing too, but her mouth was closed.
The sword in Richard’s hand deepened in color; surged forward of itself, like a dowsing rod. Now it glowed a deep reddish gold, and the handle warmed him halfway up his arm. Patsy’s breathing expanded Richard’s lungs. Off to his side, Tabby and Graham were surrounded by flickering reddish-gold light, the same color as the sword.
Another tiny dragon dropped to the boulders and split into two burning sections.
Richard had time to think: This can’t be happening.
And the massive old dragon lingering in the entrance of its cave moved its head and fixed him with its pupilless gaze. The long hinged mouth opened. Richard stepped sideways, his foot brushing something slippery and hot, and the dragon followed him with those stony eyes. Total frozen terror immobilized him for a moment. Patsy’s breath stirred in his lungs again, and he yelled, “RED RED ROBIN! JUST KEEP SOBBIN’!” He was no longer sure of the words or of their order, but he saw Patsy in his mind, saw her standing naked in that pink chamber where they were still absolutely joined; and then he saw Laura standing naked behind her, Laura with her full beautiful belly.
Women’s laughter fell toward him—from all around him it seemed, from everywhere, from the world itself.
Richard bellowed “SLEEPYHEAD!” and lifted his glowing sword.
Then his dream, their dream, was happening all around him, and he did not know if he was awake or asleep, and he shouted out “SLEEPYHEAD!” again and stepped forward.
The earth convulsed; black fluid leaked and spurted from between the boulders, and a fine spattering of pebbles and dirt rattled down the hillsides. Richard walked straight toward the waiting dragon and heard someone yelling “SLEEPYHEAD! SLEEPYHEAD!” Foul black liquid gouted onto the flat rocks, but Richard heard the laughter of women and knew that it had no power to harm him—nor even to touch him. He knew what it was, he thought: the black stuff that dripped from Emma Bovary’s coffin. He and Laura had left that book unfinished, amid a million unfinished things. A thick wall of flames shot out toward him and enveloped him, but he knew he could walk right through the flames; they too had no power to hurt him.
* * *
What the other three saw was Richard Allbee striding toward the dragon and passing through the blowtorch flames as though they did not exist: Richard seemed encased in a silken steely armor. They saw him raise his sword in the midst of the flames; heard him yell “WAKE UP!” when he brought it down.
* * *
Richard could not hear what he was shouting and in fact was not conscious that he was shouting anything. The dragon’s breath roared furiously, deafeningly about him. Its pointed teeth were the size of fenceposts. The smells of death and rot, the stench of the tunnel, blasted toward Richard with the harmless flames.
He darted in toward the dragon and brought the sword glancingly down on the long snout. The edge sliced into the dragon’s flesh, then skittered off, removing a greenish-black divot. Liquid fire rolled from the little wound, and the dragon inched backward, roaring. When Richard approached again, the dragon lunged and nearly caught him in its jaws. Richard flicked out the sword and nicked its mouth. He threw himself back and twisted sideways as the dragon thrust its head forward again, lunging at him. This time he was able to thrust the sword straight into the bottom of the jaw.
A spattering jet of fire jumped from the wound, and the dragon screamed with pain and threw itself forward. The long head darted at Richard again, and instead of trying to dodge out of the way he raised the sword just as in his dream and brought it down with all his strength. The sword sank into the end of the snout. A river of fire streamed out into the dragon’s mouth.
Infuriated, in pain, the dragon screeched and hoisted itself upward. The sword pulsed in Richard’s hand, and he moved forward, putting himself beneath the long powerful curve of the creature’s neck. Richard put both hands on the handle of the sword, felt his biceps and shoulder muscles gather themselves, and then brought the sword back up in the strongest backhand of his life. The blade slid through the thick skin and bit into bone. Richard thrust on the haft with all the force he had left and sawed right through the obstruction. Wet flame dripped down over Richard’s hands: then the dragon exploded.
Richard staggered backward from the mountain of fire, seeing rags of flame fluttering down over the boulders. The sword fell out of his hands, no longer a sword. He said, “Wake up,” and collapsed to his knees.
6
Graham and Tabby slowly came forward across the boulders, their throats raw and their legs trembling. Richard was bent forward over his knees, his head nearly brushing his outstretched shadow on the rock. “Richard?” Graham said in a rasping voice. Richard shuddered. He could not, or he would not, look up at them. “Are you okay?” Tabby asked. “No,” Richard answered. “You did it, Richard,” Graham said quietly. “You tell me what I did,” Richard said to the stone. “I’ll do better than that,” Graham said. “I’ll show you. You won’t even have to walk—all you have to do is look up.”
Richard slowly lifted his head and what the other two saw on his haggard face was deep disorientation: he looked fifteen years older. Long creases divided his cheeks. He was still shaking, and was very pale. “It’s daytime again,” he said—Graham and Tabby had scarcely noticed the return of the sun. Richard saw the expressions on their faces and said, “I hope I don’t look any worse than you two guys.” He wiped trembling hands over his face. “What’re you going to show me?”
“Here comes, ah, here she comes,” Graham said, sounding suddenly nervous and shy. “Patsy.”
Tabby revolved like a man in a hypnotic trance, and Richard grabbed Graham’s arm and pulled himself to his feet. Patsy was just managing the last few feet of the sloping hillside, and came down onto the boulders in a little rattle of pebbles. She was blushing, but as she walked toward them this little woman had the aura of great achievement about her—it was the air of an almost epic significance, and it fit her as well as her clothes. If any of them had been alone with her then, he would have wept and embraced her; but they were each too conscious of the others to risk such a display.
“Oh, Patsy,” Tabby said. “How did you—?”
She shook her head, walking toward them. Patsy’s cheeks burned a hectic red.
Tabby tried to speak to her in the private way that had been only theirs, but his thoughts failed to travel in the way they had—he sent his message and knew that it met nothing. That dimension had left them.
The ground trembled beneath them, but they scarcely felt it.
“I want you to see—” Graham began to say, and his voice trembled too.
“Hold me,” Patsy interrupted, and held out her arms as she rushed toward them. So all three put their own arms around Patsy and around themselves, standing in a circle—none of the men could escape the feeling that now he belonged to Patsy McCloud, that he was a part of her.
At last Patsy stepped backward, and their arms broke apart.
“You wanted me to see something, darling Graham,” Patsy said.
Now Graham blushed. He pointed to the rocky slope where the dragon’s cave had been. It, like all the little dragons, had disappeared. Lying propped against the hillside was a small skeleton. Its legs, each of them saw, were slightly deformed, twisted. The skull, almost arrogantly large and long, seemed to have been intended for another body. Four ragged holes the size of nickels penetrated the top and back of the massive skull.
Beneath their feet the boulders moved perceptibly to the left, then back again.
“They all got him—our ancestors. They killed him jointly. Or serially, or however the hell. But they killed him together.” Graham stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the others with something like his old vehemence. “And we did even better than that. Dammit, I think that monster’s gone for good.”
The boulders shook beneath them once more, and from the far end of Kendall Point they heard a series of loud thuds and crashes followed by the sound of heavy objects smacking into the sea. Loose stones pattered down around them.
Patsy looked up in alarm; Richard took her arm and immediately set off up the hillside which led to the base of the Point. He trusted that the other two would follow. Richard got Patsy up on the flat land and walked her nearly to the road. “Stay here,” he said, and turned around to go back and help Graham. When he looked out across the Point, he saw that a big section of the tip had simply sheared off and tumbled into the water. A huge fissure shot across the land five feet from the ragged edge, and more of the Point slid down into Long Island Sound. Richard skidded down the slope until he nearly collided with Tabby Smithfield, who was pulling Graham uphill. He took the old man’s other arm, and together he and Tabby unceremoniously hauled Graham up over the edge. “Thanks, I guess,” Graham said.
They joined Patsy against the low wall and watched as Kendall Point tore at itself. The ground rumbled; cracks jumped across the earth, webbed out and widened, joining other fissures and cracks. The boulders on which they had faced the Dragon were forced up in an upheaval that pushed another five feet of the Point into the water. The spruces left standing toppled crazily and sprawled across each other—seconds later they had disappeared, taken by another shuddering displacement. The skeleton of Gideon Winter heaved into their view momentarily, its arms and legs sawing as if it were alive, and rolled off the edge into the water. A falling cliff face immediately buried it.
Then a widening crack in the land angled toward them, and they hurried back over the wall and onto the blunt end of the road. “Oh my God,” Tabby said, pointing to the long white bar that stood near to the beginning of the Point. The destruction was widening out, claiming more land. An enormous fissure sped toward the building as if it consciously wanted to devour it. The enclosed court outside the long window at the rear of the building noisily sank out of sight, the thick concrete walls and floor snapping like dry bread. The entire building skated several feet forward—more noises of snapping and shattering, of pipes breaking and plaster walls collapsing. They heard screams, and a door flew open, releasing three young women and four or five middle-aged men. Two of the men carried beer bottles. The frightened little crowd ran into the middle of the road and watched the bar waltz forward again, shake its hips, and tip into the crack. The side of the building unhinged itself and dropped away in one tall flat section, exposing a tile floor, a curving wooden bar; in an upstairs room a yellow paper globe around a hanging light swung wildly to and fro, as if a child had hit it with a bat. Then the building seemed to groan, a thousand wooden boards pulled free from their nails, and the whole structure fell in on itself and rattled down into the fissure.
The people who had escaped it dazedly turned toward the four friends. One of the women and two of the men tentatively stepped forward. This was the first time that Patsy, Richard, Tabby, and Graham saw that expression of doggy wonder with which they later became familiar. It made them uncomfortable. “Jesus shit,” one of the other men said, and they all turned away. Graham had been sure that the three people now turning to watch a row of houses skid into the Sound had been going to stroke them.
The rotting houses in the precinct of the devastated bar were shuddering forward like mechanical toys. Bits of them snapped away as they traveled, sections of walls damply crumbled. The widening gap that had swallowed the bar pushed them inexorably across a section of sand too despairing to have ever been a beach and rolled them into the water. Then the strip of sand fell leadenly into the hole.
From the other side of the Point, the direction of Greenbank and Mount Avenue, came another series of the agonized sounds of a large building meeting an untidy death. Stone and wood and glass screamed out as they separated and fell. Joints and ligaments intended to last another hundred years pulled apart, tissues meant to be whole ripped in half. Falling lumber, falling bricks, falling iron and lead and porcelain.
After that the destruction ended. Perfect stunned silence echoed all about them and floated upward, displaced by the scrabble of a lizard through the sand, the thumping descent into a deep gorge of a last unsteady rock.
The group from the tavern was frankly staring at Richard and the others. The little band of men was taking in Patsy with what looked like undisguised awe—they too sensed that aura about her.
“Let’s go home,” Graham said.
Tabby asked if he thought Greenbank too had been destroyed.
“We’ll find out soon enough. But let’s stick together when we pass these people.”
The three of them gathered around Patsy and went slowly up the road. They did not look at the people from the bar, who backed up to let them pass. Nobody moved or spoke, but Richard and the others felt the people from the bar pushing confused emotion at them.
When Bobo Farnsworth came panting out of the rocky woods to their left, having evidently taken a shortcut from Mount Avenue, our friends stopped moving. The people behind them had already begun to drift away.
7
Bobo stopped about six feet short of the road. The blue uniform was streaked with mud, and one of his trouser legs clung wetly to his skin. He seemed afflicted with a sudden and uncharacteristic shyness—as if he were no longer sure he could approach these four people. Bobo looked at Patsy, then at Richard Allbee, then back to Patsy. “Ah,” he said. “I wanted to see you.”
His face tightened around some private misery, and he moved uncertainly to the side; took an equally uncertain step forward. Then he permitted himself to look at Patsy McCloud again, and almost apologetically walked the rest of the way to the road.
“What happened, Bobo?” Richard asked.
Now, it is a fact, though perhaps not an admirable one, that all four of the people in front of tongue-tied Bobo wished that he would explain himself and then take off. Each of them genuinely liked the tall policeman, and at most other times would have welcomed his company. Of course they were exhausted, how profoundly they still could not appreciate; and they could no more detach themselves from everything they had just undergone than they could have picked up Bobo Farnsworth and thrown him over the cliff that had been Kendall Point. But the real reason Bobo was such an intrusion is that they were as clannish as lovers. They needed one another unreservedly, and also needed the time to work out what that meant, what its dimensions were. All they really wanted was to get in a room together and close the door. So sweet Bobo was a distraction, and Richard’s question an act of unalloyed charity.
“My car ran out of gas,” he said, not very helpfully. “You can’t get gas anywhere in town�
�my needle was so far down it was almost out of sight, but I thought I could get up this far, anyway. I had to run half of Mount Avenue and then all the way through Hillhaven to get here.” He peeked at Patsy again, still breathing hard. That private trouble tugged at his mouth and eyes. “Don’t ask me how, but I knew you’d all be up here—I just sort of had to be with you. Things aren’t . . . aren’t . . .” He put his hands over his face, hiding himself like a child. “I think Ronnie’s dying. She might even be dead. Last night I know she almost died.” The words were muffled, and he lowered his hands. “She ordered me out this morning. She didn’t want me there.” Bobo inspected the gravel on the side of the road, struggling with both his misery and the sensations of expressing it. “I’m afraid to go back to her house. I couldn’t stand it if I went in there and she was dead.”
“I think you’ll find that she’s getting better,” Graham told him. “In fact I’m sure of it. And I bet she’ll be delighted to see you.” This turned out to be only fifty percent true.
“You’re sure of it?” Bobo said.
“I just said so.”
The policeman nodded. Very seriously he said, “Thank you. Thank you for everything, I guess I mean.”
None of them replied to that, and Bobo shuffled back and forth for a moment. “Well, I guess we’re all walking back together.”
“If you like,” Richard said, charitable again, though a fraction less so.
They moved in silence up toward the Hillhaven end of Mount Avenue. Bobo wanted to walk faster than the others, and kept twitching ahead, then turning around to watch them catch up. “You can run on ahead of us, Bobo,” Graham said. “We understand that you’re anxious to get back to Ronnie.”