Though, Jon thought wryly, he could hardly blame him. That’s what he wanted to do himself.
As the day passed, Jon also started to worry a bit about [88] Seth. The trip to Brooklyn shouldn’t have taken this long. Seth should have been back with the magistrate’s men by midday at the latest. By late afternoon, though, they still hadn’t shown up. Perhaps there had been a delay of some sort in Brooklyn, or perhaps they’d had a minor accident on the road, either coming or going. In any case, Seth was late and there was little they could do at their end but dispatch another messenger to Brooklyn with the news of the latest killing.
Jon was scattering corn and old bread for the chickens, thinking about meeting Rolf Derlicht the day before, and how Derlicht had said that his grandmother Agatha had wanted to speak to Jon.
That request was out of character, Jon reflected. The usual attitude of the Derlichts to the Noirs was one of haughty neglect. If they deigned to take notice of a Noir at all, it was with the air of a superior to an inferior. In their view they were the family with money and power. The Noirs were upstarts. Actually, this attitude had made it easier for Jon’s father to make some inroads on Derlicht authority in Geiststadt, though the entrenched clan still controlled most of the village.
Perhaps that was what Agatha Derlicht wanted to discuss. Though why with him and not Thomas or their father, Jon couldn’t say. Perhaps she had some information on the murder. Now murders. But why share it with him, and not his father?
Well, Jon thought, there was only one way to find out what she wanted. He was not eager to beard the lioness in her den but that was what had to be.
Jon called over one of the farmhands, who was [89] diligently trying to look like he was working, and handed him the sack of chicken feed. For a moment Jon considered going home to wash up and change into clean clothes for this unprecedented visit, but in the end decided not to. Agatha Derlicht would receive him in his working clothes, he thought, or not receive him at all. It would be her choice.
Derlicht Haus was on the north side of the village, the end opposite from Noir Manor. It was situated on a stretch of level land away from the banks of Skumring Kill. The house was surrounded by a number of barns, root cellars, out-houses, chicken runs, icehouses, and various other buildings, some already a century old. Most showed their age. The house itself was a dreary pile of wood and stone built, as he had told Trudi, on the foundations and cellars of one of the old Dutch mansions when the village that occupied the plain before HangedMan’s Hill had been called Dunkelstad.
Derlicht Haus was only two stories tall, but it covered a lot more ground than Noir Manor. It had been added to over the years with a kitchen, porch, and even another wing of rooms tacked on in a similar but not identical architectural style, giving it an organic, hybrid appearance that Jon found vaguely unsettling.
Farm hands and servants watched his progress warily as he approached the front door and knocked once with the ponderous brass knocker that was some kind of semi-human looking wild animal with a brass ring in its mouth. He waited patiently while the uniformed butler, an old Negro named Pompey, came to the door. Jon was [90] unsure if Pompey was slave or servant, but he projected the rarefied attitude of a duke. Or perhaps a minor prince.
“Yes?” Pompey’s hair was cotton white and had all but vanished from the top of his head. He’d looked like that ever since Jon could remember. Callie said that the old Negro had been with the Derlichts long before the Noirs had come to Geiststadt.
“I’m here to see Frau Agatha,” Jon said. Pompey continued to look at him like an eagle considering his prey, so Jon felt compelled to add, “Rolf, uh, Rolf mentioned to me yesterday that she wanted to see me. Under the circumstances, I don’t know if she’s accepting visitors, but I thought her request might be important.”
That seemed to satisfy Pompey. He inclined his head like an emperor and gestured to Jon to enter.
“Yes, sir.” Despite his age the butler’s voice was still a deep, strong baritone. “If you’ll come in, I’ll see if madame is receiving.”
Pompey left Jon in the first floor parlor, closed the door after him, and disappeared soundlessly into the bowels of the house. The room was neat and well-furnished, though in the style of the previous century. It was dark with only small windows that let in a minimal amount of light. It was a gloomy room. As far as Jon could remember from the few times he’d actually been inside Derlicht Haus, that adjective could pretty much apply to the entire domicile. It seemed a place of little light and happiness, though in fairness Jon thought that sometimes you could describe Noir Manor in much the same way.
The door opened suddenly bringing him out of his [91] reverie. Pompey stood aside and Agatha Derlicht swept in to the room. She was wearing one of her fancy gowns, but its fashionableness was muted by the fact that though in impeccable repair it was probably fifty years old. And it was dead, unrelieved black. Jon wondered if she was wearing it to mourn Rolf Derlicht’s passing, but then he remembered that Frau Agatha wore black so often that there was speculation around Geiststadt that it was her favorite color.
“Shall I bring tea, madame?” Pompey asked.
She favored him momentarily with her cold gaze.
“No. This is not a s-s-social call.”
“Very well, madame,” the butler said. He withdrew, closing the door behind her as she swept into the room and took a seat on a venerable sofa set before the unlit fireplace.
She and Jon looked at each other for a long moment. Jon could read nothing from her cold gaze and immobile features. In that way she was a match for his father. In his more whimsical moments Jon often thought that Agatha Derlicht and Benjamin Noir should have wed, thus merging the Noir-Derlicht families under a single roof and solving the problem of ruling Geiststadt. It would have made, though, for some grim family dinners. And considering Frau Agatha’s age he never would have been born. Of course, the upside of that was that Thomas wouldn’t have been born either.
“You may sit,” Agatha Derlicht finally said, nodding to a nearby chair. At least, he thought she was nodding. It could have been the minute tremors which shook her. [92] “I have no proof,” Jon said cautiously. “None at all. But the nature of the killings. Their savagery. The words carved into the victims faces ...”
He fell silent. Agatha Derlicht prompted him impatiently to go on.
“Well,” he said, “it may sound ... silly ... superstitious. But remember the Hessian?”
“Hessian?” Agatha Derlicht asked.
“The old story about the skirmish fought in Geiststadt during the Revolution. The militia captured some of the mercenaries who’d attacked the village. They ended up hanging them all. Except one.”
“Yes,” Agatha Derlicht said. “All but one. Whose heart they cut out before burying him in an unmarked grave in the old c-c-cemetery.”
She and Jon looked at each other a long time.
“What are you thinking?” Jon finally asked.
“I’m thinking that what I said a few moments ago is still true. H-h-human or not, the killer must be stopped before more d-d-die.”
“If ... if the killer is not human,” Jon said hesitantly, still unwilling to put into plain words the terrible thing that he thought, “where would we find him?”
“I-I-I t-t-think you know the answer to t-t-that,” Agatha Derlicht said, shaking even more than usual as she forced the words from her mouth.
“And how do we stop him?” Jon asked quietly.
Agatha Derlicht either shook her head in denial, or gave herself over to a fit of shuddering. Jon couldn’t tell which.
6.
Again that night, Jon Noir couldn’t sleep.
This time he couldn’t conjure Trudi’s image to comfort himself. Thomas’s face intruded on the scene whenever he thought about her. His brother had been insufferable at dinner. All dressed up as if he were attending a fancy ball, Thomas exhibited the manners of a supercilious gentleman who found himself surrounded by amusing bumpkins. O
nly their father, of course, was free from his barbed wit. Jon thought that James was going to attack him when the fish was served. Somehow his brother managed to control his anger and then drown it in brandy. James was sullenly drunk before desert. After dinner Benjamin Noir and Thomas closeted themselves in the study again.
Seth was still absent, hopefully safe in Brooklyn or somewhere on the road. But despite the fact that his father had men watching Schmidt’s place, Jon couldn’t help but feel a growing concern for his missing brother who might be wandering somewhere between Brooklyn and Geiststadt with a killer still on the loose.
James had settled in for a night of serious—even by his standards—drinking. Jon couldn’t bear to watch. He took himself to his room, but natural history and literary classics both failed to grip his mind. He had paced restlessly for awhile and that too soon began to pale as a means of passing the time.
He threw himself on his bed and stared at the ceiling, [96] his skin literally seeming to crawl at the touch of blanket or sheet, anger building and growing. He knew he couldn’t contain it much longer, but he was utterly unsure where to direct it.
At everything, he thought. Every damn thing. His father. Thomas. Even Trudi, for the way she’d looked at his damn brother that morning. But mostly, of course, he was angry at the killer, the unknown maniac, human or otherwise, who was transforming Thomas’s return to Geiststadt—a difficult situation, at best—into an impossible one. Over the years Jon had learned how to deal with Thomas in the course of an ordinary day. Mostly he ignored him, sometimes he lead with a judicious jab to keep his brother unbalanced and uncertain.
But the murders had thrown everything into an uproar. They had to stop, of course, both for the sake of Jon’s sanity and for the safety of the villagers. They had to stop, before the killer struck again.
Jon suddenly sat up on the bed. He hadn’t been doing a damn thing to stop them. He’d been uncharacteristically passive, waiting for someone else, his father, perhaps, to act.
Why? Jon wondered. Was he afraid? Any sane man would be, he told himself, but any sane man would also realize that it was unlikely that the killings would just stop on their own. Some sinister plan had been put into motion and the murders wouldn’t stop until the plan was fulfilled. Whatever it was.
He stood and went to the old clothes press that slouched drunkenly in the corner of his bedroom. It contained his extra clothes, and odds and ends that he’d [97] accumulated over his life. A coat for the winter. The fowling piece that he used for duck hunting in the fall. He took that out, considered it, then put it back. No. Stealth would be the key to this operation and he couldn’t drag an ancient blunderbuss around the woods quietly. Especially if he actually had to use it. He didn’t want to go totally unarmed, though, as the killer, human or not, had an obviously deadly blade of some sort.
Jon settled on the old bayonet he’d mounted on a wooden handle and then honed to razor sharpness. It was unique, something between a long dagger and a short stabbing spear. He paused, considering, and then decided he’d be a fool not to ask Isaac to come along. Isaac was strong as an ox and fast as a panther, besides having a sharp pair of eyes and ears. Killer-hunting would be dangerous, certainly. But somehow the thought of sharing the danger made enduring it seem more palatable.
He went quietly out of the house, stopping at the kitchen to make up a sack of food in case they’d be out most of the night. Isaac had a powerful appetite and Jon himself wasn’t a light eater, either.
Callie was in the kitchen, sitting before the fire, rocking and warming herself, watching the flames dance.
“Where you going, boy?” she asked.
“For a hike,” he said lamely, knowing that she would know that this was not one of his usual nighttime jaunts.
“You taking that big boy with you?”
“Yes’m,” he said nodding. “If he wants to come along.”
“Good. He’d follow you into Hell, boy.” She looked [98] from the fire dancing in the fireplace into his eyes. “You be careful that’s not where you end up.”
Jon paused. “Do you think the killer is human, Callie?”
“It uses a blade. If it uses a blade to cut, it can probably be cut by one. Probably.” She rocked on, her gaze back on the fireplace. “My eyes are cloudy. Maybe I’m getting too old to see clearly anymore.”
Jon had a sudden thought. “This isn’t ... I mean, you don’t think this is something my father is involved in, do you?”
“It could be ... something ... coming for him,” she said. “The Captain’s led a strange life. He’s made enemies.” She stopped rocking and looked at him again, and Jon was astonished to see the concern in her eyes. She’s actually worried, he thought. She’s worried about me. But she wouldn’t come right out and say it.
“I’ll be careful, then.” Jon said.
Callie set the chair in motion and looked back at the fire.
“You always was a smart boy,” she said.
He left her there, rocking, and went out into the yard. It was quiet, with an undercurrent of the usual familiar farm sounds on a warm near-summer night. The livestock were all settled in the barn, the chickens were asleep in their coops, muttering in their dreams. Jon loved the night as he loved the day. He regretted the hours lost to sleep that made the nocturnal portion of the daily round less familiar to him.
The night was the time of the quiet creatures, the small hunters, and clever gatherers. The bat, fox, and raccoon. There were still said to be some wildcats in the more [99] inaccessible parts of HangedMan’s Hill, but wolf and bear were already creatures of the past. It was too bad, Jon thought. He’d give a lot to hear the howl of a wolf on a warm night with the full moon shining down upon them both like a gentle silver sun.
He went quietly to the bunkhouse where the unmarried hands slept. Eighteen men worked the Noir’s farm. Well, seventeen, now that Erich was gone. Eight were family men. They had their own cabins on the fringe of the estate. Some sharecropped, some worked the Noir herds and planted crops for their own use, or to sell with the larger Noir harvests in neighboring communities that were becoming more towns than villages. Brooklyn had grown so large that it was no longer self-sufficient, and the gaping maw of Manhattan was less than two days away by cart. The soil was rich, the land bountiful. The farmers of Geiststadt made a good living selling their wares in the markets in the west, as long as there was no drought, nor locust, nor snow in June.
Jon entered the bunkhouse where the ten—no, nine—farmhands lived. He moved quietly as the Indians who once lived on this land, now vanished like the wolf and bear, but Isaac was awake when Jon reached his bed.
“Going out?” Isaac asked in a low voice.
Jon nodded.
“Hunting the killer?”
Jon nodded again. “It’ll be dangerous.”
“In that case,” Isaac said, rising from the bed fully dressed as if he’d expected Jon to come by at any moment, “I’d better take this.”
He held his shiny straight razor up by its wooden [100] handle. The blade was four inches long and shone bright like a crescent moon in August. Isaac flipped it shut and put it in his right shoe. Jon clapped him silently on the shoulder, and they slipped out of the bunkhouse, leaving the snoring field hands behind.
Thomas was bored, but he dared not show it. He’d learned that the Captain didn’t tolerate inattention. Indifference in the face of his studies would lead to a whipping faster than anything else. And, though the Captain was an old man—an old, old man, Thomas thought—he dared not arouse his wrath. He was bigger than Thomas and despite his years still stronger. And meaner, Thomas thought. It would never do to forget that.
The Captain sat at his desk, perusing his manuscripts as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if bloody bodies were an everyday occurrence in Geiststadt. He was a cold-hearted old bastard. Thomas would give him that.
Thomas, sitting in a less comfortable chair behind his own inferior desk set perpendicular to the C
aptain’s, squinted, then opened his eyes wide, bringing the faded papyrus as close as he dared to the glass-enclosed oil lamp. When he was only eleven, he’d held a manuscript he’d been trying to decipher too close to an open flame and it had caught fire. The disaster was only a minor one. Only that one papyrus had gone up in smoke, though for a moment or two a fiery fate for the entire study had been a near thing. He’d carried the marks of that beating for a long time.
This manuscript, while ancient, was probably relatively [101] recent compared to some in the Captain’s collection, being written only a couple of hundred years before the birth of Christ. They couldn’t be, any more certain of its age. Relatively late for an Egyptian papyrus, it was written in a rather debased form of demotic script. Recently added to the Captain’s collection, it had been obtained from his Egyptian agents since Thomas’s last visit home. It had been found, so they’d said, in a cache recently discovered in the vast ruins of the temple of Karnak and smuggled out of the country right under the eyes of the ruin’s excavators.
It was unquestionably authentic. Thomas had handled enough ancient papyri to be rather good at sniffing out the forgeries. Besides, the Captain’s antiquity agents knew better than to defraud him. It was well known that the Captain had other agents whose only job was to deal with forgers in decisive and decidedly unpleasant ways.
The scroll, formed by separate sheets of papyrus glued together into one long sheet, was in remarkable condition for a paper document nearly two thousand years old. Thomas handled it carefully. It consisted mainly of a long-winded summary of specific rituals that were to be performed on various days of the Egyptian religious calendar. Thomas was already boringly familiar with most of them. The ancient Egyptians were more religious than Protestants. Their temples were kept busy seven days a week.
But here—here was something interesting. Something new. At least something Thomas had never seen before.
The section of the scroll was titled “The Chapter of [102] Vanquishing Apep.” Thomas settled in to read it more closely.
THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Book 1: Shades of Night, Falling Page 8