Tales from the Nightside

by Charles L. Grant

  Christ! he thought and chided himself for allowing his mind to become so morbid. The weather, his leg, and Miriam’s absence were getting to be too much. He decided to call her first thing in the morning and ask her to cut her visit short. Her mother wasn't that lonely, and he needed her laughter.

  He dozed fitfully until the telephone twisted him stiffly from the couch. His watch had stopped. He stood, scratching his head vigorously, then stretched his arms over his head. "All right," he mumbled. "All right, all right, for God's sake." Daylight, he thought in amazement. That little dope didn't even wake me so I could sleep in a bed; how the hell did I oversleep? Glancing at the front window, he noticed streaks on the glass and the shimmer of ice on the walk. Rain, freezing rain, was the last thing he needed with David pouting and his wife gone. For a moment he was ready to let the phone ring and crawl into bed to hide. The house and that damned phone were making him nervous.

  Still rubbing the sleep from his face, he leaned awkwardly against the wall and snatched up the receiver. "Yeah, yeah, Jackoson here."

  “Aaron, this here is Will."

  He stiffened. "Yes, Sheriff, what can I do for you?" There were excited noises in the background; a man was bellowing angrily.

  "I'm over at the Sorrentino place. You'd better get over here."

  "David?"

  "No, nothing's happened to the boy. But Sorrentino accidentally shot the pony. He's dead."

  "I'll be right there." No thought, then, only an endless stream of cursing accusations: half in relief for his son's safety, half in anger at the rancher's murder of the boy's pet. His coat, first jamming on its hanger, refused to slide on easily. The pickup stalled twice. He shook uncontrollably, and his leg throbbed.

  The truck skidded on the icy road, but Aaron, barely aware that he was driving at all, ignored the warning. Twice in two days he had wanted to kill, and twice he was unashamed for it.

  There were two town patrol cars parked on the shoulder of the road when he arrived, and he nearly ran up the back of one as he slid to a halt and scrambled out. There was a small crowd hunched coldly in the vast well-tended yard: police, several neighbors looking ill at ease, Sorrentino himself pounding his arms against the air by the sheriff, and David standing quietly to one side...

  ...while the oldest men carefully lowered the body of the shaman into the oversized grave. They scuttled away, then, and the boy stepped up to drop in the trappings of his father's profession, a lock of his own hair, a brown seed, a young branch freshly cut. They buried the war-murdered man beneath black earth and passed the remainder of the night mourning. Lieutenant Jackoson continued to watch the boy—a onetime, now distant friend. He watched the boy sitting calmly on the grave, staring at the prisoner, a scarred man in a tattered blue uniform. Jackoson had warned his men to mind their own business this time, and they did, gratefully; but few slept and all were uneasy. And still the little boy stared...

  ...at the ground until Aaron placed an arm lightly around his shoulders and he looked up. No greeting. A look was all. Sheriff Jenkins, a scowl and sympathy fighting in his face, walked hurriedly over with Sorrentino directly behind him. Aaron glared at them, barely able to contain the rage he felt for his son.

  "How?" he demanded without preliminaries. Sorrentino tried to bull forward, but Jenkins held up a hand to stop him.

  "Frank here called me about forty-five minutes ago, Aaron. Said he was afraid he'd shot your son."

  "I was just inside the wood, Jackoson," Sorrentino said, his voice oddly harsh. "I was chasing them wolves. I heard this noise right where I spotted them last, so I let go—"

  "Without being sure?" Momentarily, Aaron was too appalled at the big man's stupidity to be angry. "You know kids are playing in there all the time. My God, Frank, you're a good enough shot to have waited a..." He stopped, seeing the retreat in the other man's eyes. "You..." He shook his head to clear it. "You... no, you couldn't have. Not even you."

  "Now wait a damn minute, Jackoson."

  "Shut up a minute, Frank."

  "But, Sheriff, that man just accused me of deliberately killing that kid's animal!"

  "He didn't say that, did he?"

  Sorrentino sputtered, then wheeled and stalked away, muttering. Jenkins didn't watch him leave; Aaron did. "Listen, Aaron, I couldn't find any evidence that it happened any other way than he said. I know how you two feel about each other, but as far as I'm concerned, his story holds up. I'm sorry, Aaron, but it was an accident."

  Aaron nodded, though he was just as sure the sheriff was wrong.

  "Look, if you want, the boys and I will take the—"

  "No," David said.

  Aaron saw the look on Jenkins's face and knew it was the first thing David had said that morning. Against his better judgment he agreed. "We'll take him, Will. But thanks anyway. I'd appreciate it if some of your men would help me put him in the truck."

  The sheriff started to say something, but the boy walked between them, past the neighbors to the truck where he let down the gate and stood by, waiting.

  "The boy wasn't on the pony," Will said. "It must have wandered off while Davie was playing."

  Aaron nodded. And what, he thought, was David playing?

  Pinto's head had been hastily wrapped in a blanket now matted with blood. David sat stroking the animal's rigid flank. Through the rearview mirror, Aaron could see the hand moving smoothly over the cooling flesh. In his own eyes were the stirrings of tears. For once he thought he knew how the boy felt, to lose a friend much more than a pet. He drove slowly, turning off the road just before his own land began. There was a rutted path leading into the wood to a clearing where the boys of the surrounding farms had erected forts and castles, trenches and spaceships. At its western end was a slight rise, and it was there that they sweated in the cold noon of the grey day and buried Pinto. The wind was listless, the rain stopped. When the grave was filled, Aaron walked painfully back to the truck to wait for David, and an hour passed before they were headed for home, and all the way Aaron tried vainly to joke the boy back into a fair humor, even promising him a new pet as soon as they could get into town. David, however, only stared at the road, one hand unconsciously working at his throat.

  Immediately they arrived at the house, the telephone rang and Aaron grabbed for it, hoping it was Miriam. It was Sorrentino, apologizing and sounding unsettlingly desperate; and Aaron, eager to talk, eager to turn from his son's depression, profusely acknowledged the other's story, and damned himself as he spoke. Sorrentino kept on. And on. He was babbling, Aaron realized, very often incoherent, and in his puzzlement at the rancher's behavior, he responded in kind, knowing he sounded like an idiot, trying not to admit that he was somehow, inexplicably, afraid of his own son.

  When Sorrentino at last rang off, Aaron felt rather than saw the boy's bedroom door open. He would not turn. He was not going to watch grief harden the young face. "It'll be all right, son," he said weakly. "In time. In time. You... you have to give it time."

  The boy was a shadow. "He could see, Dad."

  "We can't prove that, son."

  "He could see everything. The brush isn't that high."

  "David, we cannot prove it. Things are different here, you know that. We have to prove things first."

  And still he did not turn.

  "He did it on purpose. You know that, and you wont do anything. You know it and..."

  Turn around, you old fool. He's only a boy. He's only a boy, for God's sake...

  ...for God's sake, the lieutenant thought as he watched the boy sitting on the grave, how long is he going to stay there? His eyes, burning from the darkness and the fire's acrid smoke, shifted to the prisoner. The man was staring at the shaman's son, entranced, it seemed, and unmoving. He was unbound, but none of the tribesmen seemed to care. They were confident with knowledge that Jackoson didn't have, and Jackoson didn't like it. He tried instead to think of home and a place where people behaved the way they were supposed to...

  ...behave
yourself, stupid, he thought, and send the boy to bed. He'll feel better in the morning.

  "You'd better lie down, now, Dad," the shadow said. "Your leg must be hurting after all that digging."

  Aaron closed his eyes and nodded, feeling for the first time since leaving the house eons ago the painful strain that nearly buckled him. A moment later he felt the boy's arm around his waist, guiding him firmly to the bedroom. In the dim curtained light, he watched David prepare the bed, then stand aside while he eased himself between the cold sheets. David smiled at him.

  "We'll... we'll see the sheriff again in a few days, son. We'll talk to him."

  "Sure, Dad."

  "And David, don't... I mean, you know, don't try to do anything on your own, you know what I mean? I mean, don't go off chasing his sheep into the next county or smashing windows. Okay?"

  The boy paused in the doorway. "Sure, Dad. You want your medicine?"

  “No, thanks. I'll be all right in a little while. Just call me for dinner."

  Okay. I'm going to read or something. You need anything, please call."

  Aaron smiled. "Go on, son." And after the door closed, he wondered, not for the first time, if he had been right in taking the boy away. Neither, in half a decade, seemed closer to understanding the other than when they had started out on the plane from Saigon. They spoke the same language, shared the same house, but the rapport David had with the animals, with Pinto, was missing between father and son. The war was no longer a threat, its use as a bond had dissolved.

  I don't know my own son, he thought.

  A part of his mind told him to stop feeling sorry for himself; the problem wasn't a new one.

  I'm not feeling sorry for myself.

  You sound like one of Miriam's soap operas.

  I don't.

  He's an ordinary boy who needs time. He's seen war.

  He's had five years, and so, by the way, have I.

  And when he slept, he dreamed of a slight mound in a path supposedly cleared and the sound he felt and heard before waking screaming in a hospital in Japan with a leg raw and twisted. He had refused amputation. He needed the leg.

  When he opened his eyes, it was dark. He tried to fall asleep again, but a rising wind nudged him back to wakefulness. Finally he swung out of bed and dressed quietly. He was hungry and thirsty. Cautiously, he crept into the kitchen to fix a snack and unaccountably remembered a rancher he knew in passing who had a string of Shetlands he rented to pony rides during the summer fairs. Maybe, he thought, he could persuade this man to part with I one of his animals on credit. It would be easy enough to explain what had happened to Pinto. The man would have to help him. Slowly the idea grew, hurrying his actions, making him grin at himself. Without stopping to drink the coffee he had poured, he hastened down the hall to David's room.

  It was empty. His boots were gone, and his jacket. There was a hint of panic before Aaron realized that David, still mourning, had probably gone out to the barn to Pinto's stall. Snatching his coat I from the closet, he rushed outside, gasping once at the cold air and I the strong wind that slid across the now-frozen ground. A digging I pain in his thigh caused him to slow up, but long before he'd fling open the barn door, he knew the building would be empty. He stood in the barnyard, aimlessly turning, seeking a direction to travel until he saw the faint orange glow over the trees. He stared, hands limp at his sides, squinting, thinking, denying all the fears that founded his nightmares. He knew his century and still refused to believe what he had seen on the jungled mountain, dreaded what he might see if he followed the light.

  It was just before dawn...

  ...and Lieutenant Jackoson was the only squad member still awake, the others sleeping in luxurious safety for the first time in days. Night noises. Night wind. He was drowsy and rubbed the blur from his eyes. Curiosity prodded him; he rubbed his eyes again. The fire burned sullenly at the side of the grave. The boy was naked, now, and standing...

  ...running over the ice-crusted ground, Aaron was pushed from behind by the wind. He ignored his leg as long as he could, concentrating on the wavering line of trees ahead. Then, just inside the tiny wood, his foot pushed through a hidden burrow and he slammed to the ground. Palms, knees, forehead stung. When he tried to stand, his leg wrenched out from under him, and he cried out. Before him, trunks and branches, brush and grass, twisted slowly in the light of the fire, weaving darkness within darkness. Aaron pushed himself to one leg, his teeth clamped to his lips and, using the trees for support, hobbled toward the clearing. His left leg went numb, the pain felt only from the hip, and finally he collapsed.

  Not now, he begged, not now!

  He crawled, forearms and one foot, seeing his breath puff in front of his face, seeing his hands turn a dry red from the cold. Then there was a break in the pine, and he saw the boy...

  ...on his father's grave, shuffling slowly from side to side, humming to himself as he stared at the mound beneath his feet. The tribe had reassembled, squatting in the shadows, silent. The pit fire cracked...

  ...on the rise, and the smell of burning pine pierced the brittle air. And between himself and his son, Aaron saw...

  ...the prisoner seemingly rooted in place, turned so his face hidden. The boy, not looking up, not acknowledging the world's existence, muttered something and the man shuddered...

  ...beneath his heavy fur-trimmed hunting jacket. There was a rifle, useless now, dangling from one hand. Aaron tried to push himself up, to stand, but the agony was too great, and at the moment all he wanted was the heat from the fire that silhouetted the boy...

  ...shuffling faster, mumbling in rapid bursts while the prisoner swayed, slipped back, then lurched forward. Slowly, toward the grave, in the light of the fire. Jackoson thought he was dreaming.

  ...but the cold was too real, and he wondered how the boy, so lately his son, could stand the wind that whipped the flames from side to side and drew...

  ...the prisoner toward them, stiff-jointed like a grotesque marionette. The jungle...

  ...the clearing was quiet, and Aaron could hear the boy, chanting now, urging, taunting the big man forward. Aaron tried shouting, but his throat was too dry, his mind unable to break loose his tongue. All he could see was the rifle glinting. Sorrentino moved. Lumbered. Silent.

  Prisoner/rancher reached the grave.

  The boy, still chanting, reached out, palms up, waiting until the other grasped them (the rifle dropping soundlessly). A pair now, circling in slow motion. Dirt shifted beneath their feet. Aaron watched...

  ...more drowsy still from the fire's heat and the boy's monotonic voice, still undecided whether or not he was dreaming

  ...numb from the cold and drawing blood from his lips as he fought the pain enshrouding his thoughts. He lay flat on the ground, his head barely raised, his eyes glazed.

  The boy abruptly dropped his hands and stepped down from the grave.

  The prisoner waited, standing, and made no attempt to resist when the shaman's hand/pony's teeth reached through the earth and took hold.

  Jackoson slept, thought he was dreaming.

  Aaron fainted, thought he was screaming.

  David, smiling, picked up a shovel.

  The Three of Tens

  It was no more than a week past midsummer when I came home from playing and my mother said to me, Jaimie, how’d you like to go to the fair tonight? Well, I looked at her, wondering if something had gone wrong, but she seemed no worse or no better than she always did since dad died. Her hair, not yet gone grey, was pushing into a knob at the back of her head, and there was always little bits like feathers flying about in the breeze she made rushing from one place to another. She seemed no more tired than usual, though her hand was shaking a little when she lifted the kettle from the burner. So I looked around the kitchen thinking maybe she’d been down to the King’s Arms and had carried home a pint or two. But there was nothing there, either.

  “Jaimie,” she said again, “don’t you hear me, son? I said, do you want
to go to the fair tonight?”

  “Why Mum,” I said, “do you have a caller coming?”

  I grinned, taking away the bite of what I way saying, and she waved me a quick no while she poured the tea and laid out the scones.

  “I just want you to get out of the house for a while. You’ve been staying in every night past supper, and it’s not like you.”

  I shrugged and sat at the table. “I don’t want to go,” I said.

  “And why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I shrugged again and fiddled with my spoon. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to go, that’s all.”

  “Michael down the road is going,” she said. “You could stay by him if you’re afraid, you know.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, a bit angrier than I wanted. “And I am so big enough to cross the road, you know.” Then I saw the tease in her eyes. “Ain’t I been taking care of you this past year, then?”

  She sat down opposite me and took my hand, patted it once when she saw I didn’t go for that, and leaned back. She tucked at her hair, brown like mine only longer, and fluffed the dress around her front as if it was too tight. “You have indeed been doing that, Jaimie,” she said, “and to look at you now, nobody’d think you haven’t even seen a dozen winters.”

  “Well, what do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, Jaimie, that your friends aren’t your friends anymore. I never see your old chums coming round, and you’re getting a hard look a child shouldn’t have your age. You go to school, you come right back and change and go to Mr. Harrow’s for the errands he has for you, then back to eat and straight on to bed.” She shook her head and let it drop forward slowly like it was too heavy for her to hold up anymore. “It isn’t like we need the money, what with your dad’s pension, and it isn’t what I want for you, Jaimie. And I know he wouldn’t want it, either.” She jerked her head in the direction of the picture on the wall next to the Queen’s, and then she pushed a pound note to me, and when I didn’t take it up straight away, she laid it in my palm and closed my fingers around it.