Shadows Bend

by David Barbour

  “I understand.” Lovecraft worried the Artifact in his vest pocket, reminding himself, by light of day, that it did, indeed, exist outside his imagination. Now, choosing his words carefully, he cautioned Howard about the potential dangers of using the Artifact on his mother even if they were successful in learning how to tap into its powers. There was no way of knowing, except in retrospect, whether the Artifact was even made to be used by humans. It could just as well be some hellish machine whose purpose was to transform unwitting people into monsters. Lovecraft went on for a while-longer than he thought prudent, in fact-but Howard’s expression did not change at all, and he realized that he was not listening. He might as well have been some wooden Indian figurehead mounted over the wheel of his car.

  This friend, he thought. This ally. He would not hesitate to unhinge the gates of Hell if only to add a single extra moment to his mother’s earthly sojourn. In their years of correspondence, he had never imagined Howard quite like this. A massive barbarian, a savage freeloader, even a naive but bullishly determined historian of his home state, but never a filial son. During his long bus ride, as he drifted in and out of the paranoid dreams, which shifted with the landscape outside the window, he had hoped against hope that someone would help him, and now that that ally was at his side, driving with reckless speed over the just-warming blacktop, he felt at last a measure of confidence.

  “You figurin’ to bake somethin’, HP?”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s hot as Hell’s kitchen in here, man! Roll down your damn window.”

  Lovecraft complied, but only halfheartedly. He had been enjoying the mounting warmth.

  “Don’t ya sweat?”

  “I rather like the heat,” said Lovecraft. “Perhaps I have some atavistic trait lingering from our reptile ancestors.”

  “I figure you’re cold-blooded as a gila monster, though your color don’t match. No rattler’s gonna sidle up in your bag at night.”

  “I fancy not,” said Lovecraft. “Would you mind maneuvering away from the obstructions and not toward them?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They drove on for a while in silence, Howard intent on the road,

  Lovecraft watching the landscape as it changed from minute to minute as the dew burned off the patchy grasses and the air grew parched. He could smell the tang of the land as it hovered in the air like a living vapor, the subtle bite of sage, grass, and dust. He wondered if it was possible to become so accustomed to this air that it faded into the dull regularity, the mundane familiarity, of a city’s atmosphere. But then he remembered the pleasant surprises of Providence, how rounding the block he would suddenly taste the salt of a sea breeze, or how a blast of cold through a patch of pine would wake him from a winter stupor. He scanned the horizon to the right of the car, playing with the disparity in apparent motion as the things nearer to his eye blurred by while the distance remained fixed and solid. There were few landmarks out here, he was thinking, when Howard let out a grunt.

  “Breckenridge comin’ up. And it looks like nasty storm brewin’.” Lovecraft cast his gaze out across the horizon, following the span of the huge, billowing black cloud that stretched as far as he could see. It was no cloud, he realized, but a layer of black smoke not quite conjoined with the grayer overcast above it. He could smell the burning now as the dark plume enveloped the faint reddish glow of the sun.

  “That’s no storm, Bob.”

  “The smoke’s smoke, but that’s one hell of a storm above it. I don’t like the looks of it.” A shadow passed over Howard’s features as the sedan entered the darkness that now reached beyond them across the arid landscape.

  “Nor do I like the looks of it myself,” Lovecraft mumbled under his breath. He looked toward the north, where the smoke seemed to be more lively, swirling very slowly in a current of wind and mixing rather unexpectedly with the cloud cover. It reminded him of the confluence of two rivers carrying different shades of sediment or, more likely, he thought, the whorling patterns in the bands of Jupiter. Swirls within swirls, signifying the dance of storms that could go on for centuries like the fury of the great crimson eye, the Red Spot.

  Howard drove on, oblivious, in his own thoughts, but Lovecraft’s eyes’ suddenly went wide. There were faces in the chaos of clouds and smoke, indistinct at first, but more and more defined as he focused on them. They were palpitating with a force that seemed to push at them from some unearthly dimension, their features shifting ever so subtly across a spectrum of different visages that Lovecraft immediately recognized from his own descriptions in his dark fantasies. These were shoggoths, he knew, and they were mouthing soundless words, taunting him, trying to frighten him with warnings of death. He felt an electrical buzzing in the air, bitter with the tang of ozone, which he knew was more than the charge of lightning in the storm ahead; it was the very speech of the Old Ones’ minions, enfolding them like a cloud of angry hornets, pricking them with tiny injuries of the flesh as they seeped into their minds. You

  will die a death of ten thousand agonies. Your friend will die a death of a thousand fragments. Be warned now and bring unto us what is rightfully ours.

  “No,” said Lovecraft. He did not realize he had said it out loud. “What’s the matter?” Howard asked, glancing at him sidewise. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

  Lovecraft knew that what he saw was invisible to his friend. He was thankful for that, though he knew that those forces would open Howard’s eyes soon enough. It would do no good to try to explain himself at the moment, he realized. They had to drive headlong into the monstrosities he saw before him and hope that they were mere portents or a flamboyant show to scare them off. “I have seen a ghost,” whispered Lovecraft, his throat dry with fear. “I am seeing the most horrific ghosts even as I speak, Bob, but you will reply that it is only my overactive imagination further complicated by the fatigue of a sleepless night and an overindulgence in coffee, which I could not help but watch you notice. So let us explain this away, for the moment, as a case of mild heatstroke, and continue on our way.”

  “What the hell’s comin’ over you?” Howard turned to him momentarily, then fixed his eyes back on the road, where he saw what appeared to be two police cars in the distance, forming a roadblock.

  “You just hush up for a while, you hear?”

  “Certainly, I shall.”

  In a moment Howard eased the car to a stop in front of the two Texas Rangers who manned the roadblock. He leaned out of his window, mopping his brow and squinting toward the horizon, though he hardly needed to.

  “Howdy,” said one of the Rangers. “Sorry to be corralin’ y’all like this, but we got one heckuva brush fire on our hands.”

  “Never seen nothin’ like it hereabouts,” said Howard.

  “Ya don’t say. Had us a freak lightnin’ storm last night musta started it, and it’s been burnin’ ever since. You boys best take a little detour now. Where y’all headed anyways?”

  “Well, we were aimin’ for Route 66 westbound.”

  The Ranger consulted briefly with his partner, then came back and explained how to get to Vernon and Highway 5, which would take them on to Amarillo and Route 66. “Ain’t what you want to hear, I know, but beats the heck outta burnin’ in hell out here, if you know what I mean.”

  “Figure I do,” said Howard.

  “Y’all drive safe, now.”

  “Appreciate it.” Howard backed up a short way, made a Y-turn, and returned the way they had come, much to Lovecraft’s displeasure.

  “YA SEE THAT fella in the passenger seat?” said the Ranger.

  His partner pulled a long face in imitation of the Yankee. “What necka the woods you s’pose he’s from, huh?” He laughed.

  “It’s the weird shit always comes in threes,” said the Ranger. “Damnedest thing, ain’t it? Nothin’ out there but some post oak and mesquite. And I ain’t never seen a fire burn so long or hot across the desert without no wind to stoke it. And now I don’t like the looks of t
hat Yankee we just seen.”

  “That’s only two,” said the other Ranger. “What’s the third weird thing?”

  “I s’pose we’ll just have to wait an see, huh?” He opened the flap pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pouch of tobacco. “Gimme some paper, why doncha, and we’ll have ourselves a little smoke. I don’t see a damned thing comin’ for quite a while.”

  Above and behind the Texas Rangers, the boiling clouds and smoke began to flatten out, dispersing slowly into an anticipatory cairn through which something moved-something that looked like the shadow of a car.

  5

  NO WORDS PASSED between the two men for the next ninety minutes as the Chevy rumbled along the detour kicking up dust, rattling and squeaking. Occasionally there would be a jarring thump as the suspension failed to compensate for a pothole or a loud knock as a stone was thrown up into a wheel well. The noises punctuated the silence more than adequately, and Howard felt comfortable, though hot, as he jockeyed the wheel. Occasionally, he glanced over toward Lovecraft to see him gently patting at his sweating brow with a folded handkerchief.

  Lovecraft’s upper lip seemed to perspire more heavily than the rest of his face, but oddly, Howard had never noticed him wipe it. It wasn’t until he was mopping his own forehead that he saw Lovecraft out of the corner of his eye; he was resting his handkerchief daintily against his brow, looking still, but he had stuck his tongue out, and with a long deliberate stroke, he expertly lapped up the sweat that dewed his upper lip as if it were a sweet nectar.

  Howard winced in disgust and turned his eyes back to the road.

  They were approaching a small town called Thalia. In a few minutes Howard pulled into the first gas station, a tiny one-pump operation across the street from a cafe.

  The grease monkey who approached the car had crooked yellow teeth and an expression that looked like a wince frozen permanently on his face. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  “Fill’er up. Ethyl,” said Howard. “And check the radiator for me, would ya?”

  “Sure.”

  Howard headed for the bathroom. “Why don’t you go over to the cafe and get yourself a Dr Pepper or somethin’?” he said to Lovecraft. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Lovecraft stumbled as he stepped from the car. One of his legs had fallen asleep from the knee down. He leaned back in to grope for his satchel, and while the grease monkey pumped the gas, tossing curious glances his way, he went to the trunk and retrieved a can of pork and beans from his suitcase.

  When the man sidled over to try to get a look into his open suitcase, Lovecraft hastily shut it and slammed the trunk with a little more force than necessary. Now the grease monkey grinned in embarrassment, exposing his yellow teeth, but Lovecraft took it as a look of rustic suspicion, like the misleading smile of a chimpanzee. He gave the man an annoyed stare and headed across the street toward the cafe.

  When Howard emerged from the bathroom, wiping his wet hands on the legs of his pants, he noticed a flash of red. It was a young woman standing alone at the bus stop across the street, her arms folded primly in front of her, a single cheap suitcase at her feet. Her red hair waved like a warning flag in the breeze, its motion at odds with how still she stood, as if she were frozen in that posture. She was out of place here, obviously; he could see it from the cut of her dress, a city girl’s dress that accentuated her figure.

  Howard heard a loud hiss and turned toward the car to see the cloud of steam billowing from under the hood. He stepped up to the grease monkey, who was leaning away from the radiator, where he had draped a grimy rag over the cap now bubbling with hot water.

  “Shoulda waited a bit longer,” he said. “What do I owe ya?”

  “That’ll be a buck fifty-five.”

  Howard took his thick wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it. He glanced across the street again. The redheaded woman hadn’t moved; she faced west, squinting a bit, and now a gust of wind blew the fabric of her dress against her body, outlining her full figure.

  “She’s a right pretty one, ain’t she?” said the grease monkey. Howard turned to him and saw his repulsive, smarmy smile. “How much did you say?”

  The man held out his tobacco-stained hands. “A buck fifty-five’ll do it.”

  Howard paid him. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s all right, I guess.”

  “Much better-Iookin’ than the ones we usually get driftin’ through this part of the belt.”

  Across the street, the woman turned, impatient now, and the wind gusted again, throwing her hair across her face. She wiped it away like water.

  “Want to know how much?” asked the grease monkey.

  “Exactly what in the hell are you talkin’ about?” Howard said, his indignity a bit forced.

  “I’m saying… ahem… her bus ain’t due for say… another hour?”

  Without a word, Howard got into the car and slammed the door. He was glad to be obscured by the open hood, because he was both offended and interested by the lewd innuendo. He mopped a trickle of Sweat from his brow, and was just about to call out to the attendant when the hood came down with a slam, startling him. He looked up into the grease monkey’s leering yellow grin.

  “Oh, by the way…” the man said through the windshield.

  “What?” Howard snapped.

  “Radiator’s fine. Just watch the temperature, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

  Howard fired up the engine and pulled out in reverse as the man broke into laughter. Then, on second thought, he shifted and barreled back into the station, directly at him. The grease monkey threw up his palms, as if he could stop the car. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey!” Howard screeched to a stop with the bumper so close that the man involuntarily slumped forward onto the hood. Before the man could recover, Howard spun the wheel sharply and pulled out, leaving him to tumble onto the black dirt. He heard the cursing behind him as he crossed the street and parked outside the café.

  LOVECRAFT SAT AT a window booth, fastidiously sipping from his glass of water while carefully observing everyone on the street outside. He had not failed to notice the redhead at the bus stop, nor Howard’s obvious interest in her. When Howard, still angry, joined him at the table, Lovecraft set his glass down and resumed scribbling in his open journal.

  “Have you ordered yet?” asked Howard.

  “Yes, I have.’ To my satisfaction.”

  Howard snorted and took a quick glance at the tattered menu lying before him. He flipped it over, examined the other side just as quickly’ and craned his neck toward the kitchen door, looking for the waitress.

  She appeared from the other end of the cafe, obviously annoyed. The place was otherwise empty perhaps she wanted to keep it that way, Howard thought as she approached the table. “Afternoon, mister. Today’s special is the meat loaf sandwich”-she glanced at Lovecraft with a gleam of contempt in her eye-“or are you having what your friend here is having?”

  “I don’t know. What’d you get, HP?”

  Lovecraft did not immediately respond, but in his pause, the waitress reached into the pocket of her soiled apron and pulled out a can opener, which she placed deliberately and somewhat loudly on the table between them. Lovecraft winced more at her displeasure than at the sound. Howard frowned in confusion for a second, then his face grew red with embarrassment as Lovecraft sheepishly lifted his can of pork and beans up from his seat onto the table.

  Howard tried to give the waitress his friendliest smile, but she would have none of it. “Uh, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll have the special and a Dr Pepper, thanks. Oh, an some Tabasco sauce.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Where’s your can opener?” Howard asked when she had gone.

  “In my haste to enter this fine establishment, I left it in my suitcase. And since you were preoccupied with your own automotive antics…”

  “Damn it, HP. A man can’t live on nothing but pork and beans.” Howard tapped the top of the can with three fingers, looking somewhat preoccupi
ed.

  “Actually,” said Lovecraft, “I once spent ten days traveling through Virginia and ate nothing but—”

  “Look, I’ll spring for your damn meals from now on if for nothin’ but to save me the embarrassment,” said Howard.

  Lovecraft picked up the rusty can opener and wiped it on his napkin. He eyed the can in front of him and then looked sullenly at Howard, who seemed to be waiting for an answer. Howard gave in. “For Christ’s sake, go ahead and eat your damn beans. But this is the last time in public.”

  “Since you insist.” Lovecraft jabbed the blade of the can opener into the top of the can and began cutting with expert jerks of his wrist, being careful not to go more than seven-eighths of the way around, as was his habit. When he was done he peeled the lid back and involuntarily wet his lips.

  “I got an important question,” said Howard. “So, what is it exactly makes you think Smith’s gonna be able to help us figure out that Kachina and that hunk of metal?”

  Lovecraft spooned some beans into his mouth and chewed slowly, almost as if to annoy Howard before he answered. “Two months ago, I received a missive from him.” He wiped his lips with the other side of his napkin. “He described in it a trip to San Francisco from which he had just returned. Whilst browsing in his favorite antiquarian book shop on Powell Street, he had come across a tattered volume, which he guessed to be at least two centuries old.” He spooned more beans into his mouth.

  “So what’s an old book gotta do with us?”

  “The book was in a Latin cipher, of which he could read precious little, but he did not need to be a philologist or a cryptographer to read the strange occult symbols of which it was full.”

  Howard shrugged indifferently and drummed his fingers on the table. “Let me guess-it reminded him of that black book he uses in his stories.”

  Lovecraft put his spoon down and leaned forward as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Not exactly. Not his book. Until recently, it is a tome which I believed to be a fiction born of my fevered dreams.” There was a moment of silence as the two men searched each other’s faces for their next words.