The Dark Side

by Damon Knight (ed. )

  It was approximately four o’clock by his personal time-keeping system when he finally heard the sound he had been listening for, but not daring to expect—the voice of the red-headed urchin, calling his dog’s name in incredibly weary tones. In a moment the boy appeared, his face tear-streaked, his feet stumbling, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. The stick was still pulling him, and the conical cap, by a miracle, still rested askew on his head. The rod lunged forward eagerly as soon as it pointed toward Hugh, and the boy stopped by the doorstep, the divining rod pointing in quivering triumph squarely at the puppy. The boy sat down in the street and began to bawl.

  “Now, now,” said Hugh. “You’ve found your dog. Don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

  “I haven’t had any sleep or any food,” the boy snuffled. “I couldn’t let go, and the dog could move faster than I could, so I’ve been pulled all over the city, and I’ll bet it’s all the Old One’s fault, too—” His voice rose rapidly and Hugh tried to calm him down, a little abstractedly, for in the reference to the Old One, Hugh had recognised the boy’s real nature, and knew him for an ally. Wait till I tell Evelyn, he told himself, that I’ve seen an Archangel and one of the Cherubim face to face, and hatched plots with the Fallen!

  “I saw your dog, and figured probably you’d be along.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. I guess I’d have spent the rest of eternity chasing him if you hadn’t held him until I could catch up with him.” He looked angrily at the forked stick, which now lay inert and innocuous on the cobbled pavement. “I used the wrong spell, and it had to smell people. No wonder we could never get close enough to Fleet for him to hear me!”

  “Do you think you could make the rod work again?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Only I never would.”

  “I want to use it. Do you mind?”

  “I don’t mind. It’s my uncle’s, but I can always cut another one. Only it won’t work without the hat, and I took that from my uncle too. He’s an Authority,” the urchin added proudly. Hugh thought of Goethe’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice and grinned.

  “How come you didn’t shake your head and knock it off when you got tired?”

  “Oh, the hat only starts it. After that it goes by itself. I just didn’t want to lose my uncle’s hat, that’s all.”

  “Good for you. Then suppose I borrow the hat for just a minute, and you grab it when the stick starts. I want to find a cat.”

  The boy shook his head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t want to do it myself, but it’s your business. What kind of cat? I have to make up a spell.”

  Hugh anticipated some difficulty in explaining what it was he wanted, but to his relief the boy had already recognised him as a transportee and understood at once.

  “All right. Put the hat on. Pick up the stick like I had it. That’s it, one fork in each hand. Now then:

  “Seeker of souls, lost boys and girls,

  Of objects and of wells,

  Find his gate between the worlds

  Before the curfew knells;

  Find the cat who should reside

  In the mortal world Inside.”

  The divining rod started forward with a terrific jerk, and Hugh plunged after it. The boy ran alongside him and snatched off the magician’s cap. “Thanks,” Hugh shouted. “You’re welcome,” the boy called after him. “Good luck, sir, and thank you for holding my dog.” Then the stick hauled Hugh around a corner, and the dog-owner was gone; but in Hugh’s mind there remained a split-second glimpse of a strange smile, mischievous, kindly, and agelessly wise.

  The cherub had not specified in his incantation which sense the rod was to use, and so it had chosen the quickest one—intuition, or supersensory-perception, or sixth-sense—Hugh had heard it called many things, but until he held the ends of the fork he had never quite comprehended what it was.

  The stick drew him faster. His toes seemed barely to touch the hard cobbles. Almost it seemed as if he were about to fly. Yet, somehow, there was no wind in his face, nor any real sensation of speed. All about him was a breathless quiet, an intent hush of light through which he soared. The houses and shops of the town sped by him, blurred and sadly unreal. The outlines danced waveringly in a haze of heat.

  The town was changing.

  Fear lodged a prickly lump in his larynx. The facades were going down as he came closer to his own world. He knew that before long the conventional disguises of the town would be melted, and Hell would begin to show through. Startled faces turned to watch him as he passed, and their features were not as they should be. Once he was sure he had confronted Bell and Martin for an instant.

  A cry, distant and wild, went up behind him. It had been Bell—or was it—Belial? Other feet were running beside his own; shortly there were other cries, and then a gathering roar and tumult of voices; the street began to throb dully with the stampeding feet of a great mob. The rod yanked him down an alleyway. The thunder followed.

  In the unreal spaces of the public square the other entrances were already black with blurred figures howling down upon him. The stick did not falter, but rushed headlong toward the castle. His hands sweated profusely on the fork, and his feet skimmed the earth in great impossible bounds. The gates of the fortress swept toward him. There were shadowy guards there, but they were looking through him at the mob behind; the next instant he was passing them.

  The mists of unreality became thick, translucent. Everything around him was a vague reddish opalescence through which the sounds of the herd rioted, seemingly from every direction. Suddenly he was sure he was surrounded; but the rod arrowed forward regardless, and he had to follow.

  At last the light began to coalesce, and in a moment he saw floating before him a shining crystal globe, over which floated the illuminated faces of his wife—and—Yero, The Enemy. This was the crucial instant, and he remembered the simulacrum’s advice: “Don’t hate Yero.”

  Indeed, he could not. He had nearly forgotten whom it was that Yero resembled, so great was his desire for escape, and his fear of the tumult behind him.

  The light grew, and by it, the table upon which the crystal rested, and the bodies belonging to the two illuminated heads, became slowly visible. There was a cat there, too; he saw the outline become sharp as he catapulted on through the dimness. He tried to slow down as he approached the table. The rod, this time, did not resist. The two heads regarded him with slow surprise. The cat began to rise and bristle.

  The shouting died.

  “Hugh!”

  He was in Jeremy Wright’s apartment, a splintered door behind him, his heels digging into the carpet to halt his headlong charge. In his outstretched hand was, not a warped divining rod, but a gun.

  “Hugh!” his wife cried again. “You found out! But—”

  The table was still there, and the crystal. The cat and the castle were gone. But Jeremy Wright was still dressed in the robes of an astrologer. He was an astrologer.

  “I’m sorry, darling, honestly—I knew you hated it, but—after all, breaking in this way! And—a gun! After all, even if you do think it’s humbug—”

  Hugh looked at the serene face of Jeremy Wright, and silently pocketed the automatic. There was nothing, after all, that he could have said to either of them.

  H. L. Gold, who founded Galaxy in 1950, is warmly remembered for his contributions, ten years earlier, to the magazine Unknown. John Campbell’s Unknown was the first magazine in the world entirely devoted to modern fantasy-stories, like those in this book, in which the fantastic premise is explored as logically and realistically as in good science fiction—and Gold was one of the handful of writers who shaped the magazine and established its pattern.

  This story, to my mind, is a minor classic. The “water gnome” is a weak invention, not meant to be taken seriously, but the people are real. Gold has said that Greenberg’s misadventures were not funny to him when he wrote the story; I think that may be one of the secrets of high comedy.

  H. L. Gold

  TROUBLE WITH WATER />
  Greenberg did not deserve his surroundings. He was the first fisherman of the season, which guaranteed him a fine catch; he sat in a dry boat—one without a single leak—far out on a lake that was ruffled only enough to agitate his artificial fly. The sun was warm, the air was cool; he sat comfortably on a cushion; he had brought a hearty lunch; and two bottles of beer hung over the stern in the cold water.

  Any other man would have been soaked with joy to be fishing on such a splendid day. Normally, Greenberg himself would have been ecstatic, but instead of relaxing and waiting for a nibble, he was plagued by worries.

  This short, slightly gross, definitely bald, eminently respectable businessman lived a gypsy life. During the summer he lived in a hotel with kitchen privileges in Rockaway; winters he lived in a hotel with kitchen privileges in Florida; and in both places he operated concessions. For years now, rain had fallen on schedule every weekend. and there had been storms and floods on Decoration Day, July 4th and Labor Day. He did not love his life, but it was a way of making a living.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. If he had only had a son instead of his Rosie! Then things would have been mighty different—

  For one thing, a son could run the hot dog and hamburger griddle, Esther could draw beer, and he would make soft drinks.

  There would be small difference in the profits, Greenberg admitted to himself; but at least those profits could be put aside for old age, instead of toward a dowry for his miserably ugly, dumpy, pitifully eager Rosie.

  “All right—so what do I care if she don’t get married?” he had cried to his wife a thousand times. “I’ll support her. Other men can set up boys in candy stores with soda fountains that have only two spigots. Why should I have to give a boy a regular International Casino?”

  “May your tongue rot in your head, you no-good piker!” she would scream. “It ain’t right for a girl to be an old maid. If we have to die in the poorhouse, I’ll get my poor Rosie a husband. Every penny we don’t need for living goes to her dowry!”

  Greenberg did not hate his daughter, nor did he blame her for his misfortunes; yet, because of her, he was fishing with a broken rod that he had to tape together.

  That morning his wife opened her eyes and saw him packing his equipment. She instantly came awake. “Go ahead!” she shrilled—speaking in a conversational tone was not one of her accomplishments—“Go fishing, you loafer! Leave me here alone. I can connect the beer pipes and the gas for soda water. I can buy ice cream, frankfurters, rolls, syrup, and watch the gas and electric men at the same time. Go ahead—go fishing!”

  “I ordered everything,” he mumbled soothingly. “The gas and electric won’t be turned on today. I only wanted to go fishing—it’s my last chance. Tomorrow we open the concession. Tell the truth, Esther, can I go fishing after we open?”

  “I don’t care about that. Am I your wife or ain’t I, that you should go ordering everything without asking me—”

  He defended his actions. It was a tactical mistake. While she was still in bed, he should have picked up his equipment and left. By the time the argument got around to Rosie’s dowry, she stood facing him.

  “For myself I don’t care,” she yelled. “What kind of a monster are you that you can go fishing while your daughter eats her heart out? And on a day like this yet! You should only have to make supper and dress Rosie up. A lot you care that a nice boy is coming to supper tonight and maybe take Rosie out, you no-good father, you!”

  From that point it was only one hot protest and a shrill curse to find himself clutching half a broken rod, with the other half being flung at his head.

  Now he sat in his beautifully dry boat on an excellent game lake far out on Long Island, desperately aware that any average fish might collapse his taped rod.

  What else could he expect? He had missed his train; he had had to wait for the boathouse proprietor; his favorite dry fly was missing; and, since morning, not a fish struck at the bait. Not a single fish!

  And it was getting late. He had no more patience. He ripped the cap off a bottle of beer and drank it, in order to gain courage to change his fly for a less sporting bloodworm. It hurt him, but he wanted a fish.

  The hook and the squirming worm sank. Before it came to rest, he felt a nibble. He sucked in his breath exultantly and snapped the hook deep into the fish’s mouth. Sometimes, he thought philosophically, they just won’t take artificial bait. He reeled in slowly.

  “Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “a dollar for charity—just don’t let the rod bend in half where I taped it!”

  It was sagging dangerously. He looked at it unhappily and raised his ante to five dollars; even at that price it looked impossible. He dipped his rod into the water, parallel with the line, to remove the strain. He was glad no one could see him do it. The line reeled in without a fight.

  “Have I—God forbid!—got an eel or something not kosher?” he mumbled. “A plague on you—why don’t you fight?”

  He did not really care what it was—even an eel—anything at all.

  He pulled in a long, pointed, brimless green hat.

  For a moment he glared at it. His mouth hardened. Then, viciously, he yanked the hat off the hook, threw it on the floor and trampled on it. He rubbed his hands together in anguish.

  “All day I fish,” he wailed, “two dollars for train fare, a dollar for a boat, a quarter for bait, a new rod I got to buy—and a fivedollar- mortgage charity has got on me. For what? For you, you hat, you!”

  Out in the water an extremely civil voice asked politely: “May I have my hat, please?”

  Greenberg glowered up. He saw a little man come swimming vigorously through the water toward him; small arms crossed with enormous dignity, vast ears on a pointed face propelling him quite rapidly and efficiently. With serious determination he drove through the water, and, at the starboard rail, his amazing ears kept him stationary while he looked gravely at Greenberg.

  “You are stamping on my hat,” he pointed out without anger.

  To Greenberg this was highly unimportant. “With the ears you’re swimming,” he grinned in a superior way. “Do you look funny!”

  “How else could I swim?” the little man asked politely.

  “With the arms and legs, like a regular human being, of course.”

  “But I am not a human being. I am a water gnome, a relative of the more common mining gnome. I cannot swim with my arms, because they must be crossed to give an appearance of dignity suitable to a water gnome; and my feet are used for writing and holding things. On the other hand, my ears are perfectly adapted for propulsion in water. Consequently, I employ them for that purpose. But please, my hat—there are several matters requiring my immediate attention, and I must not waste time.”

  Greenberg’s unpleasant attitude toward the remarkably civil gnome is easily understandable. He had found someone he could feel superior to, and, by insulting him, his depressed ego could expand. The water gnome certainly looked inoffensive enough, being only two feet tall.

  “What you got that’s so important to do, Big Ears?” he asked nastily.

  Greenberg hoped the gnome would be offended. He was not, since his ears, to him, were perfectly normal, just as you would not be insulted if a member of a race of atrophied beings were to call you “Big Muscles.” You might even feel flattered.

  “I really must hurry,” the gnome said, almost anxiously. “But if I have to answer your questions in order to get back my hat—we are engaged in re-stocking the Eastern waters with fish. Last year there was quite a drain. The bureau of fisheries is cooperating with us to some extent, but, of course, we cannot depend too much on them. Until the population rises to normal, every fish has instructions not to nibble.”

  Greenberg allowed himself a smile, an annoyingly skeptical smile.

  “My main work,” the gnome went on resignedly, “is control of the rainfall over the Eastern seaboard. Our fact-finding committee, which is scientifically situated in the meteorological center of the conti
nent, co-ordinates the rainfall needs of the entire continent; and when they determine the amount of rain needed in particular spots of the East, I make it rain to that extent. Now may I have my hat, please?”

  Greenberg laughed coarsely. “The first lie was big enough—about telling the fish not to bite. You make it rain like I’m President of the United States!” He bent toward the gnome slyly. “How’s about proof?”

  “Certainly, if you insist.” The gnome raised his patient, triangular face toward a particularly clear blue spot in the sky, a trifle to one side of Greenberg. “Watch that bit of the sky.”

  Greenberg looked up humorously. Even when a small dark cloud rapidly formed in the previously clear spot, his grin remained broad. It could have been coincidental. But then large drops of undeniable rain fell over a twenty-foot circle; and Greenberg’s mocking grin shrank and grew sour.

  He glared hatred at the gnome, finally convinced. “So you’re the dirty crook who makes it rain on weekends!”

  “Usually on weekends during the summer,” the gnome admitted. “Ninety-two percent of water consumption is on weekdays. Obviously we must replace that water. The weekends, of course, are the logical time.”

  “But, you thief!” Greenberg cried hysterically. “You murderer! What do you care what you do to my concession with your rain? It ain’t bad enough business would be rotten even without rain, you got to make floods!”

  “I’m sorry,” the gnome replied, untouched by Greenberg’s rhetoric. “We do not create rainfall for the benefit of men. We are here to protect the fish.

  “Now please give me my hat. I have wasted enough time, when I should be preparing the extremely heavy rain needed for this corning weekend.”

  Greenberg jumped to his feet in the unsteady boat. “Rain this weekend—when I can maybe make a profit for a change! A lot you care if you ruin business. May you and your fish die a horrible, lingering death!”