The Touch

by Brian Lumley

  We are on a hill, said Three impatiently, in a place where there are trees, flowers, wild things, machines on roads carrying men, and houses where men live and keep their weapons. That is where we are. It was Three’s understanding of things, a wild wolf’s point of view.

  “You’re real, aren’t you,” said Scott, more a statement of fact than a question.

  Real? As real as you, I think! I know things; sometimes I am glad, often sad, especially so now that my mother and brothers are gone. Sometimes I hurt, when I cut a paw. And sometimes I am afraid, when I hear the hunters and their weapons.

  And wryly, Scott said, “You think, therefore you are!” But not wanting to explain, he went on: “You mentioned your father, a wolf of the wild before he met Zek. But who is Zek?”

  She is his One. They live there, with a man. Three turned his head, redirecting Scott’s gaze to a place in the trees set back from the winding road down toward cliffs with the deep sea beyond. A pantiled roof showed red in the dawning light, where blue wood smoke rose from a chimney. Zek’s man is not a hunter. He is called Jazz. So my father tells me.

  “And no one hunts your father?”

  No, of course not! Three growled. Have you not understood? He has his Zek; he is no longer a wolf of the wild! But he was, once in a far different place. You ask too many questions. And there is something I want you to see before full daylight—by which time I must be gone from here.

  “Show me, then,” Scott told him. “And the reason I ask my questions is to understand better. For if I don’t know where to find you, then how may I come for you?”

  That is what I want to show you, Three replied, getting up and loping low through dry, spiky shrubs.

  He headed for the pines, moved under them in the direction of the road, stepped carefully where the pine needles lay thick underfoot on the stony ground. And soon he (or they?) came to a scarp some twelve feet high where the road had been cut through the rock of the hillside.

  Pausing there, tongue lolling, flat on his belly again and looking down from this vantage point, Scott’s host said, There! Do you see?

  Scott looked—where Three looked, obviously—and for a while saw nothing of any special significance. Some twenty-five yards to the right, where the main road led away from the village, there was a junction of potholed tracks, one leading down to the sea, apparently, while another cut inland. And directly across the main road from where Scott (or his host) was perched above the defile, there a pebble path wound through the twisted pines to the barely glimpsed villa that Three had said was his father’s home, along with “Zek” and a man called “Jazz.”

  Scott looked again at the road and secondary tracks, none of which might truly be called “main roads” by the standards of British highways, and saw that they were signposted . . . at which he at once understood what he was seeing and knew why Three had brought him here.

  Yes, said Three. Men come in their noisy rolling machines. They are strangers, not local. Like you, they do not know where they are. They stop, look at the signs, then go their different ways. These signs are the spoor used by men!

  Signposts! Of course they were Man’s “spoor”!

  Men use their eyes to find their way, said Three. I use my nose. A wolf ’s way is better. But since I was struck by my dart even my nose is inferior. Now I could find my way . . . anywhere! I don’t know how, but I do know that there are places out there beyond the sea that are . . . BIG!

  “There are indeed,” said Scott. “As for your dart: I find that very interesting, and you must tell me about it when there is time. Also about Zek and Jazz. But right now—can we move a little closer to that signpost?”

  As you wish. But then I must be gone. Three got up, shook himself, made his way along the steeply sloping rim of the cutting to a point as close to the junction of road and tracks as he could get without emerging from the cover of the pines. And now Scott could read the signpost. It was in Greek, large white lettering on a blue background; and beneath the Greek in smaller characters, their English equivalent. The signpost arm that pointed in the direction of the village said, “Porto Zoro. 5 Km.,” a second arm said simply “Beach,” and a third, pointing inland along the track, said “Dafni” and “Ano Vassilikos.”

  “Greece,” said Scott, both to himself and to Three. But as for where in Greece: that was something he would want to check later—if he remembered!

  You will remember, said Three. If not call me, and I will show you again. But One—if you are my One, which I believe—don’t leave me here too long. Now I must go, for she will speak to you. I sense her close to you.

  With which he turned and sprang away from Scott, or rather from his mind.

  Feeling himself drifting, Scott called out, “Wait!” But in a single instant a vast darkness had crashed down on him like a shroud. Yet still he cried out, “Three, wait! There are so many things to talk about. What of this ‘she’? Who she? Which she?”

  The Two she. Three’s wolf voice was only a sigh now, gradually fading. You are One, she is Two, and I am Three.

  “Listen,” Scott called into the darkness. “I accept that I am your One, but I have another name. I’m called Scott. You can call me Scott. And, Three, we have to talk!”

  But not now, came a far faint echo. For the sun comes up, and there are goats in the hills and the men who guard them. I can avoid them in the dim dawn light but not in full daylight. And the climb is long and the way is hard. I go . . .

  And he was indeed gone—

  —But still Scott wasn’t alone. He sensed a presence and heard a quiet voice urgently speaking his name. “Scott! Scott, wake up!” It wasn’t in his head this time but in his ears, and it was real. It was a woman’s voice . . . in his room . . . and he believed he knew which woman.

  Fighting his tired, aching body he stirred, forced himself back to consciousness as again that earnest voice said, “Scott, please wake up now!”

  With a strangled cry he came awake, and in the darkness of his room, for a single moment, he thought it was Kelly standing there beside his bed! He cried out, fumbled with the light cord, and finally gave it a yank, then snatched himself into a seated position and shielded his eyes against the sudden glare. And as his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness—as Scott realized the error of his troubled mind, the yawning hole that was there where a very special someone had been—he knew that the figure standing beside his bed was not and couldn’t possibly have been his Kelly. But at least he had been correct in his recognition of the voice. For it was his mystery woman. It was Two . . .

  13

  It was 3:33, Scott knew it without even glancing at his bedside alarm clock. But right now the time wasn’t of the least importance. And as for his dream of Three, it was already fading from his mind.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was still dreaming and it had simply changed to this! But the woman shook her head. “No,” she said, “you’re awake now—to certain things anyway. May I sit?”

  Scott’s bedclothes covered him to his waist; beneath them he was naked. “Sit?” he vacantly repeated her, and with a small start, still not fully in command of his senses: “Oh, sit! Yes, of course!” He indicated a corner of the bed. “But facing away from me, if you don’t mind. I’m going to get up.”

  And fumbling with his trousers—as the initial shock wore off and the true nature of the situation dawned on him—Scott gasped, “What? What in the . . . !? You? Here? I’ve been wanting to find you, talk to you, but—”

  “Can I face you now?” she said, sounding closer, her soft voice no longer urgent.

  Tucking in his shirt, Scott turned and saw that she hadn’t sat down; she was already “facing,” or rather watching him, and probably had been when he got out of bed! She was also approaching him, her eyes widening, staring at his skinned knuckles and bruised left cheek where the punch bag had punched back; and at his upper rib cage, grazed and bruised from multiple collisions with the bar when he’d chinned it more forcefully than nec
essary. Her expression mirrored genuine concern.

  He sensed her questions coming and read them: Why are you damaged? (Not hurt but damaged.) How did it happen?

  He read these questions in her mind, and knowing she could read his mind at once erected his shields (Three’s “barriers”?) against any further invasion of his privacy. And again—as at least once before—he wondered: How in hell do I do that!?

  “Are you afraid to tell me?” she said. “Were you attacked, or was it an accident? Oh, and didn’t I tell you to be careful? You don’t know how important you are!” And before he could move to avoid her she reached out a slender hand to touch his cheek, then his chest. But from the first contact—her fingers on his face—Scott didn’t want to move. It wasn’t a sexual or even a sensual thing; it was simply very calming, very soothing. And:

  “I . . . I was exercising,” he said. “Probably a little too roughly.” And blinking sleep from his eyes: “Maybe I was trying to burn off some excess ‘passion’?” He stared at her, searched for a response. “You know? So that I could think ‘coldly, without anger, pain, or—’ ”

  “—Passion.” She nodded. “Yes, I understand.” Her fingertips were light, cool as they traced the rough, grazed skin of Scott’s chest. And for all that her touch wasn’t what he might have expected, still when she withdrew her hand his flesh continued to tingle.

  The ceiling light had been flickering—even buzzing and sputtering a little, from the moment she touched him—but now it burned steadily again. A minor problem at the power station, Scott supposed. That happened now and then.

  Buttoning his shirt, he asked, “How did you find me?” And then, checking his alarm clock—even though he knew what time it was going to be—“And what do you think you’re doing here at this time of night . . . or anytime for that matter! And how did you get in?”

  “Ah!” she said, and for the first time since approaching him she blinked, lowered her eyes, looked away. “How I arrived here, and my getting in here: I think these are questions best left until later. We have plenty of other things to talk about. I’m sure there are many things that we both want to know.”

  Putting on slippers, Scott said, “That woman in the newsagent’s. She gave you my card, right?”

  She shook her head. “No, I haven’t been back there. But I always know where you are. I’ve known that ever since . . . well, almost four months now. And like Three I can reach out to you. Most of the time.”

  Scott shook his head in bewilderment. He felt like pinching himself but was sure it wouldn’t work; it hadn’t thus far, anyway. “I need a coffee,” he said. “We should go downstairs.”

  On their way they passed Kelly’s study. Scott didn’t remember leaving the door open, but now it was. His mystery woman paused there, took a deep, slow breath, and said, “Kelly’s room. She worked here.”

  And suddenly Scott was angry. Taking the woman’s elbow he said, “Come on, you’ve got some explaining to do!”

  Pulling free, but gently, she said, “That’s why I’m here. To explain if I can, and if you’ll let me.” And then she followed him down the stairs . . .

  He made coffee; she accepted a mug; they sat in his study, and Scott actually found himself apologising for the general untidiness of the place!

  “But you haven’t been yourself,” she said. “It’s difficult to carry on, to adjust when . . . when things around you change.” And Scott knew that she had almost said when you lose something special (not someone but something), because he’d heard it like an echo in his head! And knowing he’d heard it, she said, “Yes, that, too: when almost everything changes. You know, of course, that you are not the same, that you have changed?”

  Scott didn’t answer at once. After all, he was the one who should be asking the questions! Instead he just sat there looking at her, getting her fixed in his mind, so that in future he would remember and be able to describe her, if only to himself. By which time he might even have found out who or what she was!

  Right now, though, he didn’t even know her name.

  “My name is Shania Two, or simply Shania,” she said then, because he had let his shields down. He went to reerect, reinforce them—and didn’t. Why should he when he had nothing to hide? In another time and place, in the company of a woman with the looks of this one, Scott or almost any other man might wish to keep his innermost thoughts concealed. But that was the last thing on his mind.

  And so he sat there, silent for now and rapt in the weirdness of it all, looking at her and wondering what she would say next. And over and above everything else, Scott was fully aware that Shania Two, or “simply Shania,” was completely and utterly different. But:

  “No, not utterly.” She shook her head, then sat still, as if to allow Scott’s inspection. Except now her shields were up, making this a purely visual and entirely physical thing as opposed to metaphysical.

  She was five-seven or -eight and her smoky hair framed her face like dusk, yet somehow managed to be as deep as space. But Scott needn’t look any farther . . . he knew full well where he’d seen her like this before, and it wasn’t in a newsagent’s shop.

  He looked anyway: at those slightly tilted eyes, as green as fine jade, yet by no means wholly oriental—perhaps Eurasian?—which were suddenly and completely familiar to him. Yes, definitely, he had looked into them before. And her skin, with its smoky saffron or olive tints, or something between the two, natural-seeming but yet so smooth and perfect it might well be the product of rare, expensive cosmetics, though Scott was sure that it wasn’t. Her perfect neck, delicate ears, straight nose, and ample mouth; but especially those stars, shining luminously in the depths of her emerald eyes.

  Oh, Scott had seen her before and knew where: in what he’d half considered a drugged dream as he lay on the backseat of a car while those Secret Service types drove him home! But remembering that, a sudden niggling doubt caused him to ask: “You’re not one of them, are you?” His shields were down, which allowed Shania to know who and what he meant.

  “No,” she said. “But in any case they are not our concern. They’re watchers, protectors, guardians. And as long as that is all they are, and so long as we are not compromised, we needn’t worry about them.”

  “Then we do have something to worry about?”

  “I do, certainly,” she answered. “And if you wish to right a great wrong—indeed a great many wrongs—so do you. So does Three, and not only because of his situation. He, too, has been empowered, and why else if not to assist us? We are three.”

  “You know that Three is a dog,” said Scott. “Well, in fact he’s a wolf—or so he says. But you do know that, right? That he’s only a wolf?”

  “Only?” she replied. “But Three is empowered, changed just as you were changed—made cogent and caused to be different—and at the same time. It’s important that you believe that.”

  Scott took a sip of coffee. “Me?” he said then. “I’m different, ‘changed’? Well, I know that you are different for sure! But why should I believe that I have somehow been changed?”

  “Because until you believe I can’t explain further. Scott, you were not extraordinary but now you are. And I know you know that to be true. If you didn’t you would have called the police and had me arrested for this invasion of your home. Yet here we sit and talk.” She paused for a moment, then went on:

  “And you, you were arrested—taken into custody of sorts—by men who tried to prove you are possessed of powers. And I know you have considered your own sanity, and I understand why. It was because of your dreams, your nightmares, the connections you’ve made . . . with a wolf, yes, and with me. As for telepathy: you know it to be real! You’ve seen it in use and used it yourself . . . with me, here, tonight. If that isn’t sufficient proof of your elevation, then tell me what is.”

  “My ‘elevation’?”

  She nodded. “Your senses are six, and there are powers in you, burgeoning even now. I don’t know what they are, but I do know they’
re growing stronger.”

  Scott stood up, paced to and fro. “And you understand all of this, right? Everything that’s going on?”

  “What? Oh, how I wish!” she answered fervently. “I understand my side of it, my involvement, yes. I know why I am here, what I must try to do, but as for what has activated you: that is a mystery to me. And Three is an even greater mystery!”

  “Funny thing, that,” said Scott. “You see, I thought you were the mystery! But okay, you’re right, I have been changed, yes. And I think I know when that change occurred. It happened in the small hours of the morning on the day—”

  “—The day that Kelly died,” Shania finished it for him, without reading his mind. “Yes, I know—because that was what brought you to my attention. From afar I heard you cry out . . .”

  Scott blinked, but he was more able to accept such statements now. And so, nodding, he said, “That’s when it happened, yes. So why have you waited so long before approaching me? And why did you want to approach me in the first place?”

  “But I have approached you!” Shania answered. “Surely you know that? I was certain that you had felt my presence.”

  Again, slowly, he nodded. “On the other side of a crowded street, yes. And on a tube train, your face mirrored in a dark window. In other places, too, and then in the newsagent’s shop when you finally spoke to me. But somehow, though I don’t know how, you’ve never seemed to look the same twice.”

  Ignoring that last, Shania said, “Scott, I had to speak to you. I feared you might want to . . . well, end things. Your pain was so great I wanted to ease your mind, if only a little.”

  Scott stopped pacing, thought back on that first meeting, and frowned. “You thought I might be suicidal?” he said. “Well, perhaps I was! And you did ease my mind. Simply by speaking to me, you—”

  “No,” Shania stopped him. “It wasn’t just because I spoke to you. You see, I have powers, too—other than telepathy—but different from yours. You would consider them powers, anyway. But to me they are very natural.”