by R. E. Klein
Purple fire poured from the ring, spilling onto the floor. I put out my hand to catch the fire. The pain pierced like a soldering iron. I cried out. Seizing a thick towel nearby, I threw it over hand and ring and all. Instantly all motion stopped. The only remaining light came from my oil lamp. By this light I saw my own hand was purple.
Now that I could no longer revel in the ring’s colored circles, a quiet horror stole over me. I felt drained and peculiarly vulnerable. The room I stood in, the cabin, the night itself—all seemed tense, as though expecting something. Always I heard noises from the forest, cracks and sighs and pattering. The world seemed hushed as though terrified to silence.
I blew the lamp out and stole to the window. In the darkness came the unsettling notion that the hand might choose that moment to crawl out from under the towel. But I would not heed such thoughts. I took a deep breath and carefully lifted a corner of the window shade.
Shapes with round heads moved through the forest, blackly silhouetted against the trees. They moved slowly, deliberately.
My first thought was to run for the car. But could I start the engine in time? Maybe I could hide in the forest. Or had I better stay where I was? Perhaps they would bypass the cabin.
Someone knocked on the door.
It was a queer knock, a double knock, a sound one might make who had been told we knock on our doors.
Knock-knock.
Knock-knock.
Knock-knock.
I had a feeling, almost a certitude, it wanted only the ring. I had merely to open the door, perhaps just a crack, and pass the ring through. But I could not. For whatever was on the other side of the door might have a hand to match the one on the table.
Knock-knock.
The night was still once more.
I sat in darkness in a big armchair set in a deep recess next to the mantelpiece—out of sight of the window—and stayed there, not daring to move. Some time after, long, long after, I heard a bird chattering and drew comfort from the sound. Quiet thoughts possessed me as I listened to the night bird, and I fell to pondering. A few hours before, my world had a ceiling. Now it lay unroofed to whatever might leap from the skies. Who was I to face such things? A writer. One schooled in the impracticalities of dream. I must turn the hand over to someone better fitted to deal with it.
The thought was reassuring. I felt no longer alone and powerless. The night bird still sang outside, its voice now joined by others. They sang throughout the night as I crouched in my armchair, till the window shade lightened, and I knew morning was near. I must have dozed, for I woke to full daylight.
What woke me was someone knocking on the door.
It was a persistent rapping, unlike the uncertain double knock that came in the night. But the world had shed its terrors with its darkness. Without further thought I flung the door open.
Joe the fix-it man slouched in the doorway, framed in morning sunlight. “Hullo, Garvin. I’ve come to take it away,” he said simply.
“Take what?” I asked foolishly.
He walked past me over to the table and thrust the bundle into his coat pocket.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t give it to them,” he said.
I grabbed his arm.
What’s going on, Joe?” He glanced at my purple hand.
“Buy yourself a pair of gloves.” He walked out, closing the door behind him.
III
Joe knew all about it. Whatever it meant, he understood it. Joe was a practical man who could deal with it. It was Joe’s problem now.
I felt much better as I wandered outdoors. Joe would know what to do. The pines met me with a heady fragrance. I walked for an hour or so trying to think things out. In the morning sunlight the whole appalling incident seemed much less real. Could there really have been a severed hand? I asked myself. A ring of purple fire? Beings stalking through the woods? I made my way back to the clearing where I had witnessed the wonders in the sky. I found the boulder where I had sat, but not the heaps of ashes.
The morning grew very hot. I tramped through the forest till I stumbled on a nest of ferns buried beneath the pines. I settled comfortably among the ferns as a cool place to rest and think things over. There couldn’t really have been a devilish hand, I said. There must have been something in those meteoric lights that hypnotized the brain. I felt very drowsy. How did I know I even saw the lights? I was out of it anyway. I yawned. Joe had the hand; Joe had the ring; I didn’t. Real or not, it was Joe’s problem now. The only thing I had was the purple stain on my hand. I found myself yawning uncontrollably. Later on I could drive to the village and ask Joe about it all. It was Joe’s problem now.
It was late afternoon when the voices woke me. I was too comfortable to move. I hoped they would go away, but they paused a few feet from where I lay covered by the ferns.
“That Rooshian lady in the spa’ship,” the first voice was saying, “she starts yellin’ that the spa’ship is yawin’ back and forth and that she can’t keep no equalibr’um.”
“What she done then?” asked the other voice.
“She puts her eye to the porthole, an’ her face gits kind o’ crazy when she sees what’s comin’ t’ git her. She don’t stop screamin’ till her face breaks apart. Then the whole spa’ship sort o’ dissolves. Crotan!”
“He don’t like ’em out there,” said the other voice. “They ain’t supposed t’ know what’s goin’ on.”
“Yep. Jus’ like Roanoke hunnerts o’ years ago. They seen some stuff they shouldn’t. He took the whole colony away.”
“What about the Unified Field Experiments? You bet that made ’em all crazy!” Both voices grew excited.
“Made ’em invisible.”
“Whole durn ship disappeared and showed up a second later at another dock miles away.”
“The folks aboard—”
“One walked clean through the side o’ the ship.”
“Walked inta horra!”
“Stendec!”
“Shhh!”
“Stendec’s got ’em.”
“No, they’s Crotan’s.”
“I tell ya, they’s Stendec’s. Crotan don’t have nothin’ under the sea.”
“How about all them skeletons in airplanes down there that seen white water?”
“Them’s Stendec’s. Crotan don’t have nothin’ under the sea.”
A pause. A shuffling of feet. The men moved on.
“Who’s got the ra-a-ang?” the first voice drawled.
“Garvin. Garvin’s got it.”
My name! They were saying my name!
“Crotan wants it back.”
“I reckon Stendec’ll come t’ git it.”
“No, Crotan’ll git it first.”
The voices died as the figures moved away. I got up and parted the bushes. I saw them clearly. Laboring men from the next valley—East Slope types, as they are known around here. Two workmen carrying their lunch pails, talking together on their way home.
They were still looking for the ring. They didn’t know I’d given it to Joe. I had to drive to the village and find Joe. He would tell them I no longer had the ring. When I went for my car, I found the cabin door open.
I stopped at the car long enough to arm myself with the tire iron. Then I went inside the cabin.
All seemed as I had left it. Except that the top dresser drawer, which I always keep closed, was halfway open. Except that a pile of linen that I left at the foot of the bed was now at the center. Except that my briefcase, my valise, my corner cabinet—everything that could conceivably hide a ring—had been searched, probed, put back only in its approximate place. I’m sure they got the car, too. Unless I hid it in the woods, they must figure the only other place for the ring was on my person. I had to get to Joe. I started the car and drove to the village.
I talked to the owner of the dry goods store where Joe hung out; he told me Joe had not come round that day but was expected in the morning. I could wait till morning, but not in my isolated
cabin. I started toward the hotel when I realized I had eaten nothing all day. The village’s best restaurant was an old-fashioned barbecue pit with picnic tables and sawdust on the floor. It was always pretty lively, and I was minded not to be alone.
Walt, the proprietor, stood by the cash register. He nodded when I came into the crowded restaurant.
“You’re doing good business,” I said.
“Lots of folks came to town early,” Walt said. “Been hanging around all day. East Slopers. Now what do they want?”
“I wouldn’t complain,” I said, “as long as they pay their checks.”
“Something’s not right,” Walt said. “They never come to the village in such numbers. Look at them. They don’t say hardly a word. They just eat slow and stare at people. I right out asked one, why are all you folks here? Know what he said? He said they’re here for the hunting.”
“So?”
“Man, there is no hunting here. There’s nothing to hunt. Don’t you know that? They just look around and stare, like they’re searching for something. And they’re silent. They’re real silent.”
“That fellow isn’t silent,” I said, indicating a smiling, red-faced man with spectacles, who seemed to be holding court at one of the picnic benches.
“Him? That’s old Scotty. No East Sloper him! He’s an engineer or something. Been coming here for years. Talks like a phonograph, don’t he? Look at him, with that grin on that red face of his, just a-jabberin’ away. Oh, the Johnsons are leaving. I reckon Scotty talked their appetites to death. Do you want to sit next to old Battermouth? It’s the only empty space unless you want to wait a bit.”
I told him the seat would do. I preferred the noise and the crowd to finding myself seated next to one of the taciturn East Slopers. I took my place on the bench and looked around for the waitress.
“Beans are real good today.” Scotty laughed.
“They’re always good,” I replied.
“You bet. Real good.” He glanced at the other diners as if for confirmation. Then he smiled at me.
He looked to be in his sixties: a tall, red-faced man with black spectacles and closely cropped, bristly white hair. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and a black tie. He smiled a great deal.
“I’m Scotty,” he said.
“Jim Garvin,” I replied.
The waitress brought a place setting and took my order.
“Say, Scotty,” one of the diners said, “d’ja see the meteor shower last night?”
“Sure did. Why it was better than the Fourth of Ju-ly.” He turned to me. “You see it?”
“I saw some of it,” I said.
“What do you think made everything so bright?” Scotty asked candidly. “Could it be gases, do you think?”
I said I didn’t know.
“Sometimes pieces of those meteors fall to the ground. I knew a fella once found a chunk of iron ore as big as your fist.”
“Happens alla time,” said someone.
“Man,” said Scotty, “would I like to get me a souvenir of a meteor shower.” He laughed with his eyes. His red face and closely cropped white hair seemed to laugh with him. “Anybody hear of any rocks falling?” None of us had.
My dinner came. I ate as Scotty talked indiscriminately to all of us at table—general talk, of travel and weather and his home in St. Louis.
The people at the end of the table got up to go. A woman with a little girl took their place. The waitress cleared the table and brought menus and place settings. Scotty beamed at the little girl.
“How do, Missy?” He smiled.
The little girl tugged at her mother’s arm.
“Go, Mummy.”
Her mother said something.
“Go, Mummy.” She was crying. She was looking directly at Scotty and crying bitterly. “Go, Mummy. Go now!” The woman got up.
“I’m sorry. I’m real sorry,” she said, as the child pulled her from the room.
“Takes a face like mine to scare little children.” Scotty laughed. Some laughed with him.
I finished my meal. Scotty ordered more food. I put some bills on the table.
“Say, Mister.” Scotty winked. “Where’d you get that purple hand? You been pickin’ grapes?” He laughed. Joe warned me to hide that purple stain. Now Scotty had blurted it out. I wondered if any of the East Slopers had taken notice. I laughed, too, as I left the restaurant.
It was very dark outside. The street was quiet except for a couple of loungers leaning against a wall. Neither seemed curious about me, yet I walked a block out of my way, darted through a short alley, and slipped into the side entrance of the hotel.
In the dimly lighted lobby I could make out a weasel-faced man behind the desk. Two other men sat on a sofa, their faces hidden in shadow.
“I’d like a room for the night,” I said to the clerk.
“Certainly, Mr. Garvin.”
He had called me by my name.
And I had never met him.
“I’ll have to check first. We are crowded tonight—lots of folks are in for the hunt. Excuse me a moment.” He disappeared into an inner office.
Names get known quickly in a mountain village. Maybe Walt or Joe or someone else had pointed me out to him. Still, it bothered me that he knew my name. I looked around the lobby. The two men still sat in shadow. One lit a cigarette. I saw their faces momentarily. The clerk returned.
“You’re in luck, Mr. Garvin. We have one room left.” He told me the price and handed me the register.
“I nearly forgot,” I said. “Have you a pay phone?”
“A pay phone? Yes, right around the corner there. Do you want the room, Mr. Garvin?”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
I tried to look casual as I walked over to the phone booth and closed the folding door behind me. I hoped my hand did not shake as I dialed the number of the airport. I looked at my watch; it was then a quarter to nine. I could be down the mountain and catch the 12:35 flight to Decatur. I reserved a seat. Calmly, very calmly, I returned to the front desk.
“Do you want to sign the register now, Mr. Garvin?” The desk clerk asked. The two other men had risen from the sofa and stood now beside the main desk. I signed the register and made for the front door.
“Where are you going, Mr. Garvin?”
“My luggage,” I said.
“My men will get it for you. Give them your car key.”
“No. It’s a book I’m writing. That’s all my luggage. Just a book.” I stepped past them.
“That call I made was to the movie theater,” I said, pausing at the open door. “I have to hurry. The picture’s already started.” I was out the door a second later.
I retraced my steps to the alley and over to the street where I had left my car, then drove the half block to the theater and parked in the alley close by the side entrance. I walked around to the front, bought a ticket, and went inside. I hoped no one saw me leave through the side door. I slipped into my car and started the engine.
That desk clerk—could I have got past him if he knew about my plane ticket? What about the two men on the sofa? What would they have done if they suspected I overheard their conversation in the woods?
I was clear of town now, heading for my cabin to put together a few things, collect my manuscript, then leave for good. Timberlake was a hotbed of them, whoever they were. I looked at my watch. I had two hours or so before the movie let out. When they missed me at the hotel they would come looking. I pulled up in front of my cabin, then got out of the car, walked the few steps, and opened the cabin door. I fumbled for a match to light the oil lamp. The door shut behind me.
Everything was wrong. Shining particles glutted the air. My ears felt a surging as of air singing through a breathing tube. The very walls seemed to strain as if containing an immense pressure. I felt around for the oil lamp. The room suddenly blazed with green light.
Scotty sat in the big chair. He was saying something. I remember watching the reflection of the bright p
articles on his shiny, black-rimmed glasses. The room stretched on and on. I felt euphoric.
He was telling me about a Unified Field, but I was more interested in watching the solid walls pulsate through the dense air. All the while Scotty smiled and joked with me.
Once he said, “You have something that belongs to us.”
“Not anymore.” I laughed.
“Will you give it up, or shall I take out my ray gun? Ha! Ha!”
“I gave it to Joe.” I laughed, as though my doing so was the funniest thing in the world.
His red face leaned way over.
“You don’t look as if you gave it to Joe. Where is Joe?”
“He is gone.”
Scotty winked at me. “Of course,” he said. “You gave the ring to Joe, so you don’t have it anymore.”
“Not anymore,” I agreed.
The room vibrated with a loud buzzing. I looked up to find Scotty standing by a door I didn’t know was there.
“Say.” He smiled. “Somebody wants to see you.” He took my arm and walked me to the door. “Go right in.” I paid little attention to him or to the angry buzzing coming from beyond the door. I was laughing uncontrollably because I could talk with such a being as Scotty was.
“Who are you?” I almost shouted. “I mean, what are you really? You aren’t human, are you?” The euphoria nearly exploded inside me as I waited for his answer.
The buzzing stopped. “I don’t look like them,” he said, pointing at the door he was trying to get me to walk through. “I look like one of you. Go on in now.” But I wanted to ask him more questions.
Then Scotty wasn’t there anymore. The room sang in my ears with its escaping pressures. The buzzing started up again and died in a devilish whisper. My purple hand felt like it was on fire. Scotty reappeared. In the pulsing confusion of that pressurized room, with his glasses flashing and his bristly hair almost glowing white, Scotty bent low and whispered.
“Go in now, go in and see Crotan!”
IV
I was up and out the door, reeling with a concussion of sound and an agonizing pain in my ears; then I was driving down the mountain, the word “Crotan” crashing through my mind like a scream inside a cave.