Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2

by Ray Bradbury

  And then it was suddenly so funny they couldn’t finish the tune.

  The Beautiful Shave

  He came into town riding fast and firing his guns at the blue sky. He shot a chicken in the dust and kicked it around, using his horse as a mauler, and then, reloading and yelling, his three-week beard red and irritable in the sunlight, he rode on to the Saloon where he tethered his horse and carried his guns, still hot, into the bar where he glared at his own sunburned image in the mirror and yelled for a glass and a bottle.

  The bartender slid them over the edge of the bar and went away.

  The men along the bar moved down to the free lunch at the far end, and conversation withered.

  ‘What in hell’s wrong with everyone?!’ cried Mr James Malone. ‘Talk, laugh, everyone. Go on, now, or I’ll shoot your damn eyebrows off!’

  Everyone began to talk and laugh.

  ‘That’s better,’ said James Malone, drinking his drinks one upon another.

  He rammed the wing doors of the Saloon wide and in the resulting wind stomped out like an elephant into the afternoon street where other men were riding up from the mines or the mountains and tying their horses to the worn hitching poles.

  The barber shop was directly across the street.

  Before crossing to it, he rechecked his bright blue pistols and snuffed at them with his red nose, saying Ah! at the scent of gunpowder. Then he saw a tin can in the talcumy dust and shot it three times ahead of him as he strode laughing, and the horses all along the street jumped nervously and flickered their ears. Reloading again, he kicked the barber shop door wide and confronted a full house. The four barber chairs were full of lathered customers, waiting with magazines in their hands, and the mirrors behind them repeated the comfort and the creamy lather and the pantomime of efficient barbers.

  Along the wall on a bench sat six other men waiting to be cleansed of the mountain and the desert.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said one of the barbers, glancing up.

  ‘I sure will,’ said Mr James Malone, and pointed his pistol at the first chair. ‘Get out of there, mister, or I’ll sew you right back into the upholstery.’

  The man’s eyes were startled, then angry, then apprehensive in turn above his creamy mask, but after a long hesitation, he levered himself up with difficulty, swiped the white stuff off his chin with the apron, flung the apron to the floor, and walked over to shove in and sit with the other waiting men.

  James Malone snorted at this, laughed, jounced into the black leather chair, and cocked his two pistols.

  ‘I never have to wait,’ he said to no one and everyone at once. His gaze wandered over their heads and touched on the ceiling. ‘If you live right, you don’t have to wait for anything. You ought to know that by now!’

  The men looked at the floor. The barber cleared his throat and put an apron over Jamie Malone. The pistols stuck up, making white tents underneath. There was a sharp click as he knocked the pistols together, just to let everyone know they were there, and pointed.

  ‘Give me the works,’ he said to the barber, not looking at him. ‘A shave first, I feel itchy and mean, then a haircut. You men there, starting on the right, tell jokes. Make ’em good jokes. I want entertainment while I’m being shorn. Ain’t been entertained in months. You, there, mister, you start.’

  The man who had been evicted from his comfortable chair unfroze himself slowly and rolled his eyes at the other men and talked as if someone had hit him in the mouth.

  ‘I knew a gent once who …’ he said, and word by word, white-faced, he launched himself into a tale. ‘That gent, he …’

  To the barber, James Malone now said, ‘Listen, you, I want a shave, I want a beautiful shave. But I got a fine-skinned face and it’s a pretty face with the beard off, and I been in the mountains for a long time and I had no luck with gold-panning, so I’m feeling mean. I just want to warn you of one little thing. If you so much as nick my face once with your straight razor, I’ll kill you. You hear that? I mean I’ll kill you. If you so much as bring one little speck of blood to the surface, I’ll plug you clean through the heart. You hear?’

  The barber nodded quietly. The barber shop was silent. Nobody was telling jokes or laughing.

  ‘Not one drop of blood, not one little cut, mind you,’ repeated Mr James Malone, ‘or you’ll be dead on the floor a second later.’

  ‘I’m a married man,’ said the barber.

  ‘I don’t give a damn if you’re a Mormon with six wives and fifty-seven children. You’re dead if you scratch me once.’

  ‘I happen to have two children,’ said the barber. ‘A fine little girl and a boy.’

  ‘Don’t hand me any of that,’ said Malone, settling back, closing his eyes. ‘Start.’

  The barber began to get the hot towels ready. He put them on James Malone’s face, and under them the man cursed and yelled and waved his pistols under the white apron. When the hot towels came off and the hot lather was put on his beard, James Malone still chewed on his profanity and threats, and the men waiting sat white-faced and stiff with the pistols pointing at them. The other barbers had almost stopped moving and stood like statues by their customers in the chairs, and the barber shop was cold for a summer day.

  ‘What’s wrong with the stories?’ snapped James Malone. ‘All right, then sing. You four there, sing something like “My Darling Clementine.” Start it up. You heard me.’

  The barber was stropping his razor slowly with a trembling hand. ‘Mr Malone,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up and get to work.’ Malone tilted his head back, grimacing.

  The barber stropped his razor some more and looked at the men seated all around the shop. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Did all of you gentlemen hear what Mr Malone said to me?’

  Everyone nodded mutely.

  ‘You heard him threaten to kill me,’ said the barber, ‘if I so much as drew a drop of blood to his skin?’

  The men nodded again.

  ‘And you’d swear to it in a court of law, if necessary?’ asked the barber.

  The men nodded for the last time.

  ‘Cut the malarkey,’ said Mr James Malone. ‘Get to work.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to be sure of,’ said the barber, letting the leather strop fall and clatter against the chair. He raised the razor in the light and it gleamed and glittered with cold metal there.

  He tilted Mr James Malone’s head back and put the razor against the hairy throat.

  ‘We’ll start here,’ he said. ‘We’ll start here.’

  Colonel Stonesteel’s Genuine Home-made Truly Egyptian Mummy

  That was the autumn they found the genuine Egyptian mummy out past Loon Lake.

  How the mummy got there, and how long it had been there, no one knew. But there it was, all wrapped up in its creosote rags, looking a bit spoiled by time, and just waiting to be found.

  The day before, it was just another autumn day with the trees blazing and letting down their burned-looking leaves and a sharp smell of pepper in the air when Charlie Flagstaff, aged twelve, stepped out and stood in the middle of a pretty empty street, hoping for something big and special and exciting to happen.

  ‘Okay,’ said Charlie to the sky, the horizon, the whole world. ‘I’m waiting. Come on!’

  Nothing happened. So Charlie kicked the leaves ahead of him across town until he came to the tallest house on the greatest street, the house where everyone in Green Town came with troubles. Charlie scowled and fidgeted. He had troubles, all right, but just couldn’t lay his hand on their shape or size. So he shut his eyes and just yelled at the big house windows:

  ‘Colonel Stonesteel!’

  The front door flashed open, as if the old man had been waiting there, like Charlie, for something incredible to happen.

  ‘Charlie,’ called Colonel Stonesteel, ‘you’re old enough to rap. What is there about boys makes them shout around houses? Try again.’

  The door shut.

  Charlie sighed, walked u
p, knocked softly.

  ‘Charlie Flagstaff, is that you?’ The door opened again, the colonel squinted out and down. ‘I thought I told you to yell around the house!’

  ‘Heck,’ sighed Charlie, in despair.

  ‘Look at that weather. Hell’s bells!’ The colonel strode forth to hone his fine hatchet nose on the cool wind. ‘Don’t you love autumn, boy? Fine, fine day! Right?’

  He turned to look down into the boy’s pale face.

  ‘Why, son, you look as if your last friend left and your dog died. What’s wrong? School starts next week?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Halloween not coming fast enough?’

  ‘Still six weeks off. Might as well be a year. You ever notice, colonel.…’ The boy heaved an even greater sigh, staring out at the autumn town. ‘Not much ever happens around here?’

  ‘Why, it’s Labor Day tomorrow, big parade, seven cars, the mayor, maybe fireworks – er.’ The colonel came to a dead stop, not impressed with his grocery list. ‘How old are you, Charlie?’

  ‘Thirteen, almost.’

  ‘Things do tend to run down, come thirteen.’ The colonel rolled his eyes inward on the rickety data inside his skull. ‘Come to a dead halt when you’re fourteen. Might as well die, sixteen. End of the world, seventeen. Things only start up again, come twenty or beyond. Meanwhile, Charlie, what do we do to survive until noon this very morn before Labor Day?’

  ‘If anyone knows, it’s you, colonel,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Charlie,’ said the old man, flinching from the boy’s clear stare, ‘I can move politicians big as prize hogs, shake the Town Hall skeletons, make locomotives run backward uphill. But small boys on long autumn weekends, glue in their head, and a bad case of Desperate Empties? Well.…’

  Colonel Stonesteel eyed the clouds, gauged the future.

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, at last. ‘I am moved by your condition, touched by your lying there on the railroad tracks waiting for a train that will never come. How’s this? I’ll bet you six Baby Ruth candy bars against your mowing my lawn, that Green Town, Upper Illinois, population five thousand sixty-two people, one thousand dogs, will be changed forever, changed for the best, by God, some time in the next miraculous twenty-four hours. That sound good? A bet?’

  ‘Gosh!’ Charlie, riven, seized the old man’s hand and pumped it. ‘A bet! Colonel Stonesteel, I knew you could do it!’

  ‘It ain’t done yet, son. But look there. The town’s the Red Sea. I order it to part. Gangway!’

  The colonel marched, Charlie ran, into the house.

  ‘Here we are, Charles, the junkyard or the graveyard. Which?’

  The colonel sniffed at one door leading down to raw basement earth, another leading up to dry timber attic.

  ‘Well—’

  The attic ached with a sudden flood of wind, like an old man dying in his sleep. The colonel yanked the door wide on autumn whispers, high storms trapped and shivering in the beams.

  ‘Hear that, Charlie? What’s it say?’

  ‘Well—’

  A gust of wind blew the colonel up the dark stairs like so much flimsy chaff.

  ‘Time, mostly, it says, and oldness and memory, lots of things. Dust, and maybe pain. Listen to those beams! Let the wind shift the timber skeleton on a fine fall day, and you truly got time-talk. Burnings and ashes, Bombay snuffs, tomb-yard flowers gone to ghost—’

  ‘Boy, colonel,’ gasped Charlie, climbing, ‘you oughta write for Top Notch Story Magazine!’

  ‘Did once! Got rejected. Here we are!’

  And there indeed they were, in a place with no calendar, no months, no days, no year, but only vast spider shadows and glints of light from collapsed chandeliers lying about like great tears in the dust.

  ‘Boy!’ cried Charlie, scared, and glad of it.

  ‘Chuck!’ said the colonel. ‘You ready for me to birth you a real, live, half-dead sockdolager, on-the-spot mystery?’

  ‘Ready!’

  The colonel swept charts, maps, agate marbles, glass eyes, cobwebs and sneezes of dust off a table, then rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Great thing about midwifing mysteries is, you don’t have to boil water or wash up. Hand me that papyrus scroll over there, boy, that darning needle just beyond, that old diploma on the shelf, that wad of cannonball cotton on the floor. Jump!’

  ‘I’m jumping.’ Charlie ran and fetched, fetched and ran.

  Bundles of dry twigs, clutches of pussy willow and cattails flew. The colonel’s sixteen hands were wild in the air, holding sixteen bright needles, flakes of leather, rustling of meadow grass, flickers of owl feather, glares of bright yellow fox-eye. The colonel hummed and snorted as his miraculous eight sets of arms and hands swooped and prowled, stitched and danced.

  ‘There!’ he cried, and pointed with a chop of his nose. ‘Half-done. Shaping up. Peel an eye, boy. What’s it commence to start to resemble?’

  Charlie circled the table, eyes stretched so wide it gaped his mouth. ‘Why – why—’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It looks like—’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘A mummy! Can’t be!’

  ‘Is! Bull’s-eye on, boy! Is!’

  The colonel leaned down on the long-strewn object. Wrists deep in his creation, he listened to its reeds and thistles and dry flowers whisper.

  ‘Now, you may well ask, why would anyone build a mummy in the first place? You, you inspired this, Charlie. You put me up to it. Go look out the attic window there.’

  Charlie spat on the dusty window, wiped a clear viewing spot, peered out.

  ‘Well,’ said the colonel. ‘What do you see? Anything happening out there in the town, boy? Any murders being transacted?’

  ‘Heck, no—’

  ‘Anyone falling off church steeples or being run down by a maniac lawnmower?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any Monitors or Merrimacs sailing up the lake, dirigibles falling on the Masonic Temple and squashing six thousand Masons at a time?’

  ‘Heck, colonel, there’s only five thousand people in Green Town!’

  ‘Spy, boy. Look. Stare. Report!’

  Charlie stared out at a very flat town.

  ‘No dirigibles. No squashed Masonic Temples.’

  ‘Right!’ The colonel ran over to join Charlie, surveying the territory. He pointed with his hand, he pointed with his nose. ‘In all Green Town, in all your life, not one murder, one orphanage fire, one mad fiend carving his name on librarian ladies’ wooden legs! Face it, boy, Green Town, Upper Illinois, is the most common mean ordinary plain old bore of a town in the eternal history of the Roman, German, Russian, English, American empires! If Napoleon had been born here, he would’ve committed hara-kiri by the age of nine. Boredom. If Julius Caesar had been raised here, he’d have got himself in the Roman Forum, aged ten, and shoved in his own dagger—’

  ‘Boredom,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Kee-rect! Keep staring out that window while I work, son.’ Colonel Stonesteel went back to flailing and shoving and pushing a strange growing shape around on the creaking table. ‘Boredom by the pound and ton. Boredom by the doomsday yard and the funeral mile. Lawns, homes, fur on the dogs, hair on the people, suits in the dusty store windows, all cut from the same cloth.…’

  ‘Boredom,’ said Charlie, on cue.

  ‘And what do you do when you’re bored, son?’

  ‘Er – break a window in a haunted house?’

  ‘Good grief, we got no haunted houses in Green Town, boy!’

  ‘Used to be. Old Higley place. Torn down.’

  ‘See my point? Now what else do we do so’s not to be bored?’

  ‘Hold a massacre?’

  ‘No massacres here in dogs’ years. Lord, even our police chief’s honest! Mayor – not corrupt! Madness. Whole town faced with stark staring ennuis and lulls! Last chance, Charlie, what do we do!’

  ‘Build a mummy?’ Charlie smiled.

  ‘Bulldogs in the belfry! Watch my dus
t!’

  The old man, cackling, grabbed bits of stuffed owl and bent lizard tail and old nicotine bandages left over from a skiing fall that had busted his ankle and broken a romance in 1895, and some patches from a 1922 Kissel Kar inner tube, and some burned-out sparklers from the last peaceful summer of 1913, and all of it weaving, shuttling together under his brittle insect-jumping fingers.

  ‘Voilà! There, Charlie! Finished!’

  ‘Oh, colonel.’ The boy stared and gasped. ‘Can I make him a crown?’

  ‘Make him a crown, boy. Make him a crown.’

  The sun was going down when the colonel and Charlie and their Egyptian friend came down the dusky backstairs of the old man’s house, two of them walking iron-heavy, the third floating light as toasted cornflakes on the autumn air.

  ‘Colonel,’ wondered Charlie. ‘What we going to do with this mummy, now we got him? It ain’t as if he could talk much, or walk around—’

  ‘No need, boy. Let folks talk, let folks run. Look there!’

  They cracked the door and peered out at a town smothered in peace and ruined with nothing-to-do.

  ‘Ain’t enough, is it, son, you’ve recovered from your almost fatal seizure of Desperate Empties. Whole town out there is up to their earlobes in watchsprings, no hands on the clocks, afraid to get up every morning and find it’s always and forever Sunday! Who’ll offer salvation, boy?’

  ‘Amon Bubastis Rameses Ra the Third, just arrived on the four o’clock limited?’

  ‘God love you, boy, yes. What we got here is a giant seed. Seed’s no good unless you do what with it?’

  ‘Why,’ said Charlie, one eye shut. ‘Plant it?’

  ‘Plant! Then watch it grow! Then what? Harvest time. Harvest! Come on, boy. Er – bring your friend.’

  The colonel crept out into the first nightfall.

  The mummy came soon after, helped by Charlie.

  Labor Day at high noon, Osiris Bubastis Rameses Amon-Ra-Tut arrived from the Land of the Dead.

  An autumn wind stirred the land and flapped doors wide not with the sound of the usual Labor Day Parade, seven tour cars, a fife-and-drum corps, and the mayor, but a mob that grew as it flowed the streets and fell in a tide to inundate the lawn out front of Colonel Stonesteel’s house. The colonel and Charlie were sitting on the front porch, had been sitting there for some hours waiting for the conniption fits to arrive, the storming of the Bastille to occur. Now with dogs going mad and biting boys’ ankles and boys dancing around the fringes of the mob, the colonel gazed down upon the Creation (his and Charlie’s) and gave his secret smile.