by Tom Deitz
In that form he slid his head between the damper and the fireplace and peered out into the Scotts’ living room.
It was empty—thank the gods—but Calvin wasted no time in uncoiling his rather considerable length into the space between the grate and the firescreen. He paused there, debating. He did not like this body at all, distrusted the insistent way disturbing desires were poking and prodding their way between his thoughts. ’Possum was far, far better. And so he caused it to be, and in that guise wiggled between screen and stone and was soon scampering quickly along the empty hall toward what he hoped was Don’s bedroom.
Fortunately the door was cracked, and he was able to scoot inside, where he gazed up at the perfect archetypal room for a fourteen-year-old boy. There was a set of bunk beds—he thought—but over, under, and around them was a truly amazing clutter: clothes, camping gear, an empty gun rack full of cheap swords; various trophies and plaques, both academic and athletic; an antique desk piled with paperback fantasy novels and gaming manuals; several armies of painted miniatures; model cars (mostly Ferraris and Mustangs); a discount-store stereo; a small TV; maps of the heavens; posters for Def Leppard, Z.Z. Top, Batman, and Top Gun; and—covering nearly one whole wall—a near-life-size print of a black Lamborghini Countach.
But where was the bow?
He tried to recall, but the ’possum mind kept getting in the way—apparently it was worse when you tried to remember than when you tried to think ahead. But then he had it; it was in the closet.
Calvin now had no choice but to become human again.
He did, his head spinning a little as the floor fell away beneath him until he was once more at his full five-foot ten. The chill of air-conditioning brushed his bare skin from a vent on the floor, and he shivered, glimpsed his nakedness in the mirror hung behind the door, but he had no time to be concerned about modesty. A pair of silent steps (not easy, given the clutter on the floor) brought him to the closet, which had no option but to be open. Bracing himself with one hand, he peered inside, saw more clutter: clothes, ammo boxes, a baseball bat, Lazer-Tag equipment…
And leaning against one corner, a perfectly serviceable recurve bow—blessedly not one of those compound things. He dragged it out as quietly as he could and examined it. It looked to be in good shape, though there was a trace of mildew on the wood, and the string was a trifle frayed. A forty-pounder, it appeared—a bit light for him and probably marginal for the task, but perhaps it’d do. He strung it quickly and tested it, then reached back inside in search of arrows. He found three—broad-tipped hunting items—but was disappointed, for they were rusty and badly fletched.
Now, if he could only contrive a way to get out without attracting notice… Shoot, maybe he should just take the obvious route: walk bare-assed through the house, tip his imaginary hat to the cops in the kitchen, and saunter on out the door, trusting shock to carry him through until he could get to the woods, go deer or some such, and run like blazes—and hope the bow didn’t snag on something while he was at it. Or was there some other, less risky alternative? ’Gator he had once considered—he’d eaten it a time or two. But though he’d certainly have shock on his side, and he knew ’gators could move pretty fast, he wasn’t so sure about the bow. And that left bear and panther, but he hadn’t eaten panther, so that was out. Bear, though—now that was an idea. They even had a little manual dexterity; possibly enough to manage the bow if he was careful.
But at the exact moment he bit the scale and began to enact the change, he heard the door behind him creak open and a startled male voice exclaim, “Sorry,” then add, when Calvin caught his eye and saw recognition flash, “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch!”
It was Abner again, and he’d caught Calvin red-handed in Don Scott’s bedroom. But this time Calvin had the initiative, and before he knew it, his reflexes had taken over and launched a solid right into the man’s jaw. He toppled instantly, but Calvin caught him on his way down and eased him to the floor. A fast check showed the man was still breathing. Calvin shut the door again, and this time he locked it.
Suddenly he had an idea. Acting quickly, he tugged off the man’s shirt, pants, and shoes. It took a minute and made more noise than he liked, but he managed, and a moment later was putting them on. Both shirt and pants were too long and a little too snug around the chest and thighs, and the shoes were far too big, but perhaps they’d do. A final pause to load and pocket the man’s .38 and see if he was still okay—he was—and Calvin scooped up the bow and arrows and headed for the door.
He had barely touched the knob when an insistent knock sounded from the other side. “Hey, Abner, you okay?”
Calvin quickly spat the scale into his hand. “Yeah,” he muttered, trying to shift his voice into Abner’s nervous squeak.
“What you doin’ in there anyway?”
“Checkin’ out some stuff.”
“Why you got the door locked?”
“Is it?”
“Sho’ is.”
“Hang on a sec.”
Calvin made a show of fumbling with the knob but took care that it didn’t unlock. He mumbled an assortment of curses under his breath—convincingly, he hoped.
But maybe not.
“You okay? You don’t sound right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just havin’ trouble with the goddamn lock.”
“Hell, shoot the friggin’ thing.”
“No need.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
Silence then: “I don’t like this, Moncrief, I’m gonna go get the lockpick and come in. You better be outside here to meet me.”
“No need.” But by then the man was gone.
And Calvin was up shit creek.
He stared at the still-unconscious deputy, now sprawled across the cluttered rug in his T-shirt and BVDs.
They expected Abner, huh? Well, he’d give them Abner.
A deep breath, and Calvin squatted beside the unconscious deputy. There was a little blood trickling from inside his mouth, and Calvin rubbed his fingers in it, then inserted them inside the man’s cheek and found more. Acting before he had time to contemplate what he was actually doing, he thrust the fingers into his mouth and licked them clean. The taste of blood was thin and coppery, and he had to fight his gorge—not so much because it was human blood, but because it was Abner Moncrief’s blood.
Now came the crucial test: he would transform again, but not into a beast he had hunted. This time he would become…something that had hunted him!
He closed his eyes, gripped the scale, and thought how it would be to look like Abner: to be tall and thin; and to have that funny mole on his jaw and that cynical sadistic leer and that burry hair and over-wrought mustache.
He felt the change, but subtly, like a shift in air pressure, a gentle set of tensions and tugs and relaxations that felt no different than the way your body did after an intensive workout.
But when he glanced into the mirror—it was Abner Moncrief’s face that blinked back at him.
He also heard footsteps hurrying down the hall.
Quickly, he dragged the unconscious deputy’s body around until it was out of sight of the door and tossed a pile of clothes over it, then retrieved the bow and arrows. He opened the door just as the footsteps halted on the other side.
“Sorry, boys,” he mumbled to the gaping expressions that greeted him. “Had trouble with the lock and got kinda flustered.” He brandished the bow. “Boy back in jail said somethin’ ’bout a bow.” (Which he had, when they’d asked him how he’d planned on feeding himself while camping out.) “So I thought I’d check this ’un out.” (Which didn’t make a lot of sense, but maybe would do in a pinch.)
And with that he marched past their incredulous stares, proceeded down the hall, and pushed through the kitchen door. He was well into the yard when a shout told him they’d finally found Abner.
But by the time he heard pursuit, he was in the woods and had shed his clothes again, stuc
k the arrows in his mouth along with the scale he was already biting, snagged the bow and gun with his right and left foot, respectively, and was winging aloft as an eagle.
He could not fly well thus encumbered—the balance and aerodynamics were preposterously wrong—but somehow he managed. A minute later he was gliding low above the oaks, eyes probing the shadows in search of his quarry.
Chapter XXVII: Treed
(east of Whidden, Georgia—noon)
He would be back soon, Calvin had said, and Don Scott was hoping fervently that was so. But how soon was soon? he wondered. Calvin had been gone maybe twelve minutes, but they’d begun to hang like hours because almost as quickly as he’d left the thrumming had begun again, stronger than ever.
Don had followed Calvin’s advice and scampered to the edge of the meadow where he had climbed into a massive live oak that had branches conveniently close to the ground. And he was still there, scanning the skies with feverish anticipation for the return of his friend, who was also an eagle.
But Calvin was nowhere in sight, and Don was about to go out of his mind with dread and anticipation.
The thrumming was the worst part, because even as he surveyed the skies again, he felt the strongest cadence yet—vigorous enough to actually set the tree to trembling, so that he had to grab onto the branch above him to brace himself. Simultaneously, he heard a rumble, like the one earthquake he’d experienced two years ago on a Boy Scout trip to California. Chills raced over him as he looked down, across the scrap of meadow, and saw what he had feared: a sort of humping wave-motion in the land, as if an immense mole made its way along beneath the grass.
“No!” Terror took hold of him again and threatened to send him fleeing, but instead he climbed higher, until he found a place in the fork of a limb, with two more just at armpit level to hang onto—the whole perhaps fifteen feet in the air. But suddenly that did not seem far at all, for the ridge had now advanced up to the edge of his tree’s shadow. It stopped there, sort of bunched and puckered, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out when he saw what slowly rose from the ground: a hideous old woman gray as gravel and dirty as ancient mud. She looked like an Indian—sort of, or at least had that kind of face and long hair in braids. Her clothes he could not make much sense of except that they were shapeless and filthy and smelled at once of earth and sand and mud. The sunlight struck her for a moment and he was certain she actually steamed, that vapor rose from her flesh and that new cracks opened in her already seamed and fissured skin as he stared at her. He heard her groan, as if in great pain, but then she peered up at him with her eyes like black stones—those same eyes he had seen in Allison’s face, the ones that had glittered gleefully when this…thing had calmly devoured the living liver of his best and only friend.
And then she smiled, though it was more like mud flats splitting open in speeded-up film, and he could see her teeth: black and hard like melon seeds.
“I seem to have found you,” the woman croaked, and Don felt every hair on his body rise in spite of the moss he had crammed into his ears. For though it muffled the sound enough to keep him from falling completely under Spearfinger’s spell, it did not entirely obscure her voice, and he could sense some subtle power floating even in those words. It was suddenly all he could do to remain where he was.
The Stoneskin raised a ragged eyebrow. “You do not like this shape? It does not please such a delicate child as you? Then perhaps this one will suit you better!”
She bent over, and Don could barely hear a muffled buzz of language, but when she straightened again it was Allison’s smooth pink flesh and golden hair that showed through the coarse shapeless drapery. “Shall I come up and play with you, brother? Or would you rather come down to me?”
“I’ll stay,” Don managed, wondering if he was being an utter fool for even daring to address this thing. She wore Allison’s body now, and Allison could certainly climb a tree, so there was nothing in the world stopping her from coming up here and taking her own sweet time to eat his liver.
“You’ll stay, will you?” And the voice was hard as stone, but so shrill it pierced the moss. “Maybe you will stay, but that will not protect you.” With that, the woman began to sing. Her voice went abruptly low, like stones grating against each other, and as she sang, bit by bit his sister’s shape slowly slumped back into that much more fitting hideousness. He knew the song too: it was the hypnotizing song, the one that froze you, that made you come to her: Uwelanatsiku. Su sa sai! But at the first inkling of it, Don clamped his hands over his ears as tight as he could and though he felt the rhythm (for Spearfinger had started patting her foot in time with her chant), he was able to resist the call. It took all his effort, though, for the least bit of relaxation let the melody through the moss, and twice he found himself almost releasing his ears so he could hear better.
So why didn’t she come up? Allison could have, and Spearfinger had worn Allison’s shape. But then he recalled something Calvin had told him, that she was a thing of the earth, and that trees were not all her allies. Maybe she did not dare leave the ground, or perhaps she got weaker if she did. Maybe—
The tempo of the thrumming suddenly became much more intense and quicker, and the song changed into a series of syllables even more unintelligible than heretofore. She was staring at the ground, pacing around a part of it, pointing at the center of the small circle she had already trod out in the marsh grass directly beneath him. Faster and faster she hitched along, always focusing on that one spot, and with every footfall booming through the land so that the whole vast trunk of the tree vibrated.
And then the ground was hunching up as if something sought to enter the upper world from far beneath. Don head his breath as a hump appeared where Spearfinger pointed, soon to be joined by others to either side, and as he watched in horror, that hump rose higher and higher, and he realized he was seeing a finger of stone being conjured up from the underground depths straight below him. White those stones were, like the underlying limestone, and they gleamed balefully in the noontime air. A drop of sweat fell from his nose and stained one, but then was gone, absorbed—or drunk—by the ever-rising boulders.
Spearfinger had slowed her chanting now, but the centermost stone continued to rise like a newborn sarcen until its top was barely three feet limn his branch and level with it, with another not far behind on his other side.
“Do you like them?” Spearfinger crooned. “Perhaps your death will not be so bad for you, Don Scott, because you will have at least seen what few in this Lying World have.”
And with that, Spearfinger laid a hand on a lump projecting from the nearest boulder and started climbing. Don shuddered, even as he scrambled higher. For it seemed to him that the stone had grown out under Spearfinger’s feet and was slowly boosting her upward. Against the very bones of the earth, what chance did he have but to keep on climbing? Finally unable to continue—for she had once more begun her dreadful tune and he needed both hands to shut it out—he hooked himself into a mass of branches as well as he could and clamped his fingers on his ears and saw Spearfinger’s hands push through the first of the leaves.
Chapter XXVIII: Taking Aim
A harsh cry above and to the right startled Calvin so much he almost dropped both bow and gun, and he did miss a beat of wings, so that his steady onward rush faltered and he dipped a yard or so. A quick upward glance showed him something reassuring, though, for he was now being flanked by a pair of falcons: his totems acting as escorts.
Which must mean that he was finally about to meet his foe on even ground.
Assuming he could even find Spearfinger…
He flapped lower, glimpsed his wide-winged shadow rippling across the trees as he scanned the land below before, letting the eagle instincts take over as much as he dared.
Mostly he saw treetops, and to the left—the east—the gleaming twist of creeks amid the bogland. And animals, of course: the eagle never missed those, though here in the bright light of day it was
mostly squirrels at play in the upper branches—and birds. More than once he had to suppress an urge to dive and feast, for this shape was ravenous—as, Calvin realized, was he.
But where was Spearfinger? Surely she was near, for both he and Don had felt the earth trembling, which meant that she was moving about. The last tremor had felt close to the meadow, too: too close for Calvin to feel comfortable about, not with a friend waiting there. Surely the ogress must surface sometime, but was he going to have to land to actually find her? This shape was so good for reconnaissance: swift and keen-eyed, but it could not see everything, was not supernatural—and Spearfinger was. She was also—
Something caught his attention, sent warning flashes tingling through his body before his human reflexes could override. People—a boy and a girl, emerging from the dense cover of the forest beside a sliver of open ground left by the collapse of a pair of trees.
Brock! Robyn! he wanted to cry out as he folded his wings to dive, but could not because of the scale and arrows in his beak.
But his shadow touched them, and the boy, looked up, puzzled, then tugged on his sister’s sleeve excitedly and pointed. Calvin could not hear what he said, but his expression spoke volumes: wonder and fear and apprehension all.
Calvin alighted on the closer of the fallen trunks and balanced there for an awkward moment while he disencumbered himself of the bow and gun. That accomplished, he hopped down behind his perch, closed his eyes, and began the change.