Shadows Bend

by David Barbour

  Howard grinned, breaking the tension. “Oh, come on, HP. You don’t really think Smith found the Necronomicon.”

  “No, not precisely. The original is long lost, as you know. But this is surely a translation of the mad Arab’s text. I am absolutely convinced of it after the events I’ve experienced over the past several days.”

  “Okay,” said Howard. “So let’s suppose it is the Necronomicon or some other book for castin’ spells and raisin’ demons from Hell. How’s that goin’ to help us?”

  Lovecraft reopened his journal and pulled a folded slip of paper out from the inside back cover. He slid it across the table to Howard, as if it were some secret bid.

  Unfolding it, Howard saw dozens of small, crude reproductions of various occult symbols spaced out in rows of three. Some of them he recognized as Hermetic symbols, astrological symbols, and Masonic symbols. Others seemed to be Teutonic runes and Egyptian hieroglyphs, and some looked like a distorted Chinese script to him. , “What’s this?”

  “Klarkash-Ton copied these from the tome and posted them to me along with his letter. Examine the symbol on the far left, second from the bottom, if you will.”

  As Howard oriented his eye on the paper and picked out the now familiar symbol.

  Lovecraft took the Artifact out of his watch pocket and placed it next to the symbol on the paper, juxtaposing the two to show that they were the same. In fact, when the Artifact had taken on the color and texture of the paper, it seemed to have been penned there all along.

  “Holy Christ!” said Howard.

  “I can assure you, Bob, the Christian savior has nothing to do with what lies before us.”

  Seeing the waitress approaching with Howard’s order, Lovecraft quickly replaced the Artifact in his pocket and slipped the sheet of paper back into the pages of his journal.

  The waitress placed Howard’s sandwich and soda in front of him. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome,” she answered, glancing with barely reserved contempt at Lovecraft and his can of beans.

  Lovecraft, oblivious to her attitude, stopped her just as she began to leave. “Pardon me, good woman, but I believe you failed to bring my companion the Tabasco sauce he requested with his meal.”

  The waitress stepped back to the table and looked down at Howard’s plate, her hands on her hips in mock drama. “Why, sir, I do believe you are right,” she said in a bad imitation of Lovecraft’s accent. “I most humbly apologize.” From where she stood, she turned, leaned over to the counter, and grabbed a bottle of Tabasco sauce. She placed it squarely on the table in front of Lovecraft. Howard looked on, uncomfortable with the tension, but Lovecraft remained unflappable.

  “Anything else, my good man?” said the waitress.

  Lovecraft looked at her, somewhat puzzled, as he had not yet gotten her joke. The Waitress picked up the can opener. “If you are quite through with the can-opening apparatus, I will return it to the chef. I believe it is time to feed the stray cat out back.”

  Howard covered his mouth and chuckled under his breath as the waitress stalked off, and it was only then that Lovecraft understood. He was not amused. “Bob, I sincerely hope that any gratuity you were planning to leave for that scullery maid will be adjusted accordingly to reflect her insolent manner toward me.”

  Howard couldn’t hold back any longer. He laughed out loud.

  “Admit it, HP. You had that comin’.”

  “I will admit nothing of the sort.”

  “Bringin’ your own food into a diner is a damned insult to the folks who run the joint. Goes against common decency.”

  “The only ‘damned insult’ I’m currently aware of is this dubious eatery charging you twenty-five cents for that rather anemic portion of meat loaf and calling it a ‘special’ ”

  With a chuckle, Howard lifted the top slice of dry bread and sprinkled his meat loaf sandwich with a liberal portion of Tab as co sauce. As he took his first big bite, even Lovecraft was forced to give in; he broke into a wan smile, if only for a brief moment.

  THEY EXITED THE CAFE arguing about the generous tip Howard had left. As they stepped toward the car, Howard looked down the street to see if the redhead was still waiting for her bus. She was there, sitting on her suitcase in a pose Howard thought was decidedly masculine, her elbow propped on one knee, her chin on her palm. For the first time, Howard noticed that she wore a pair of men’s cowboy boots with her dress, and that perked his interest even more strongly.

  Three young men were coming down the street toward the redhead-as purposefully as they could manage in their obviously drunken state. They were probably oil-field roughnecks wasting their salaries at the local bar. Howard hoped they would not bother the woman, although he could not say why he was so concerned for her.

  “Bob?” said Lovecraft, his door poised open.’ “Hold on a minute.”

  Lovecraft turned to see what had captured Howard’s attention. The three drunks had surrounded the young woman and stood in menacing attitudes. One of them, sporting a battered homburg cocked at ridiculous angle, stood just in front of her, practically between knees. “Where ya think you’re goin’, bitch?” he said.

  The woman rose defiantly to her feet. “You just stay the hell away from me! All of you!”

  “You didn’t think we was gonna let you just up and run off on us like that, did you!” The man in the homburg pointed at her, then thrust his index finger into her collarbone, leaving a spot of grease on her pale skin.

  The woman swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

  The second man, who stood behind her, snatched the woman’s suit case and spilled its meager contents-mostly undergarments-out into the dusty gutter. “We want our money back,” he said as he poked at her clothes with the tip of his grimy boot.

  The third man, a mustached fellow, tried to pull the woman’s purse Łfrom her shoulder. She struggled to hold on to it. “God damn you, bastards! I said leave me alone!”

  Howard was agitated. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, not quite knowing what he should do. At that moment a burly man with a shaggy mane of hair arrived to interrupt the fracas; he jerked the mustached fellow backwards, forcing him to let go of the purse strap.

  “You boys heard what the lady said. Leave her alone!” roared the burly man.

  The three roughnecks now formed a circle around the intruder.

  “Sam,” said the man in the homburg, “why’re you stickin’ up for this lowlife thievin’ little bitch?”

  Sam positioned himself as best he could to defend himself and the fearful woman. “Can’t rightly say I believe that, knowin’ you boys the way I do,” he said. “Get along now! Go on back to your wells! I don’t like beatin’ a man who ain’t sober, but I’ll whup all three of ya if I have to!” To illustrate his threat, he raised his fists and assumed an old-fashioned boxing stance. It merely caused all three of the muscle-bound roughnecks to laugh.

  “Think ya can lick all three of us, do you, Sam?” said the man in the homburg.

  “Hell, boy, the way you stink of whiskey, I think your mama could take the three of you with one hand tied behind her back.”

  “This ain’t none of your affair, Sam. Mind your own damn business ’fore you get hurt!”

  From across the street, Howard watched the scene slowly unfold adrenaline starting to pump through his veins-but Lovecraft was indifferent.

  “Come along, Bob. We should be on our way.”

  It was a matter of conscience and proper conduct for Howard; he scuffed his feet nervously against the dirt, muttering under his breath. “That ain’t right. Three men gangin’ up on one.”

  Unable to discern Howard’s whispers, Lovecraft got into the car. “Bob, the petty squabblings of those dim-witted roustabouts is really beneath our concern.”

  It was too late. Howard had made up his mind. “Wait here,” he said with an odd authority in his voice. He strode down the street toward the commotion, walking in a way Lovecraft had never seen b
efore.

  Lovecraft shut the door to put a barrier between himself and the unpleasant events he was sure were’ about to ensue. “What do you think you are doing?” he called after his friend, but Howard ignored him and increased his pace just as fists began to fly. “This isn’t one of your barbarian tales, you know!” Lovecraft called. He quickly glanced up and down the deserted main street for a stray police vehicle; and seeing none, he nervously watched his friend leap into the middle of the brawl, issuing a loud, dramatic battle cry. “Or perhaps it is,” Lovecraft said to himself.

  Howard dived between two of the roughnecks with his arms outstretched, hitting them squarely on the backs of their thick necks; and then, as his weight bore down upon them, he folded his arms, trapping them in headlocks as he tumbled to the pavement. They were so surprised they had no clue what had hit them, and in their drunkenness, they must have thought the earth itself had heaved. Sam was caught off guard by Howard’s sudden appearance; he took a clumsy right to the chin from the man with the homburg, and he stumbled momentarily backwards into the arms of the redheaded woman. She caught him and helped him right himself as the man in the homburg turned to see what had happened to his friends. “What the hem” he said.

  With the strength and persistence of a pit bull, Howard furiously gripped the two in headlocks, a low growl of exertion involuntarily escaping his throat. Sam was somewhat embarrassed to be the victim of a sucker punch, even if it was poorly aimed; he pounced back toward the man in the homburg and tapped him on the shoulder, and, as he turned, Sam slammed a solid left hook into his jaw. A glass jaw. The man in the homburg wobbled for a second, then collapsed straight down, unconscious even before he hit the ground.

  Howard was now on his knees, still vigorously choking the two men. To Sam it looked like a cowboy had jumped down onto a pair of frightened horses on a stagecoach to wrestle them to a stop. Howard had lost his grip on the mustached man, who slipped out from underneath him and stood up to kick him wildly in the back with his work boots.

  “Let go of ’im, you son of a bitch!”

  Howard yelled out in pain, but like a badger that has sunk its curved teeth into its tormentor, he refused to yield his choke hold. The face wrapped in his arms was beginning to turn blue.

  Sam pounced onto the man with the mustache, knocking him into the gutter with the redhead’s scattered clothes. The woman gave him a fast kick in the ribs, and he curled up in pain. The man in Howard’s unrelenting grip had gone limp; Howard let him drop to the ground, where he gradually regained consciousness, wheezing for air.

  The mustached man got back to his feet in a rage. He tried to rush Sam, who deftly stepped out of his way with a feline grace rather unexpected from a man of his age and build. The mustached man ran square into Howard, who swiveled his entire upper body into a right cross that nearly skewered the man through the gut. He fell in a fetal position, in too much pain even to make a sound. Howard glanced around wild-eyed, then he turned back to the mustached man and kicked him in the back.

  “Kick me, you son of a bitch?” he shouted. “You kicked me? You God damn kicked me!” The man coughed and made a feeble motion to protect himself. Howard slammed his foot into his back once again, causing a sickening sound in the man’s flesh.

  “Kick me?” Howard shouted again. He pulled his foot back, this time to kick the man in the head, but before he could, Sam grabbed him and swung him up against a wall. Howard was in such a blind rage he didn’t even seem to notice what had happened to him.

  “Son, that’s enough!”

  Still overwhelmed by his rage against his attacker, Howard struggled momentarily to free himself from Sam’s grip.

  “These boys are licked,” said Sam. “We done knocked the fight out of ‘em.” His sincere, calming tone soothed Howard back toward regaining his composure. Sam patted him gently on the shoulder and released him. “Son, you okay now?”

  Howard wiped the sweat from his brow. “Yeah. I guess so.” Sam smiled and extended his hand. “Name’s Sam. What’s yours?”

  “Bob. Bob Howard.” He shook Sam’s hand.

  “Much obliged, Bob.”

  Howard’s mood was immediately softened by the genuine friendliness and sincerity that radiated from Sam. Howard smiled sheepishly back at him like a second grader who’d just been praised for his penmanship.

  Leaving a small crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the fight, Lovecraft approached, watching the shaggy-maned Sam dutifully helping the three injured roughnecks to their feet. Sam lined the three men up side by side and pointed them at the cafe down the street, where the waitress and the cook were standing outside the door.

  “You boys go on over and get some coffee, hear?” Sam yelled down at the waitress, “Penny, give these boys some coffee on the house!”

  “Sure, Sam!”

  “And give ’em some aspirin, too!” He firmly nudged each of the roughnecks to start them staggering toward the cafe.

  Howard bent down to help the redheaded woman, who was kneeling to gather up her scattered belongings. It was mostly underclothing, and Howard didn’t realize it until the thing he picked up unfolded, and fell open into a brassiere. As his eyes went wide with embarrassment, his gaze met the redhead’s. His face immediately flushed red, and he handed her the bra so hastily he nearly dropped it. The woman smiled warmly, with just a touch of amusement at the corners of her full lips. Howard quickly turned his attention to Lovecraft’

  “Bob, are you all right?” asked Lovecraft, casting a furtive glance over at the kneeling woman .

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Howard said, rubbing his elbows. “A little banged up is all.” When he turned back, Sam had helped the redhead to her feet.

  “’Scuse me son, I’ve got someone who’d like to thank you,” said Sam. “Bob Howard, this here’s Miss Glory McKenna.”

  She smiled and extended her hand rather formally. “Thank you, Mr. Howard. It was very brave of you to step in and help Sam like that. I hate to think what would have happened if you two hadn’t…”

  Howard hunched his shoulders and shifted from foot to foot, his head hanging like a little boy both proud and uncomfortable with praise. “Wasn’t nothin’, Miss,” he said.

  “Nothin’s about what anybody else would’ve done for the likes of me in this town.”

  Now Lovecraft stepped up to join them, his eyebrow raised with puzzlement at Glory’s remark.

  “Bob,” said Sam, “aren’t you gonna introduce us to your friend here?”

  “Oh, this is HP. Uh, Mister Howard Phillips Lovecraft.” He gestured to Sam and Glory. “HP, this is Sam and, and—”

  “Miss McKenna, if I recall.” Lovecraft, ever the gentleman, tipped his hat in deference to the lady. “I am delighted to meet you both. I wish the circumstances could have been more pleasant ones.”

  Sam extended a huge paw of a hand and shook with Lovecraft, who winced at the pressure of the man’s grip until he realized his error and quickly relented. “Pleasure’s ours,” said Sam. “Don’t see many strangers the likes of you in town.”

  After the episode with the waitress in the cafe, Lovecraft couldn’t fail to see the double meaning in Sam’s words, even if they were not intended that way. He thought it best to leave quickly. “Well, Bob,” he said “I suppose we really should be on our way.”

  “You two headed up toward Vernon by any chance?” said Sam. “Yeah,” said Howard. “We’ll be passing through on our way up to 66.”

  “Bob, Howard, I hate to impose on you like this seeing as how I just met the both of you an’ all, but do you think it would be too much trouble to give Glory a lift up that way?”

  Glory was embarrassed. She could see that the two men were obviously reluctant. “Oh, Sam, that’s really not necessary.”

  Sam ignored her protest. “See, way things stand, I really think it’d be best to get her out of town right away. The bus ain’t due here for another hour an’ a half yet. ”

  Howard and Lovecraft remained s
ilent. Sam turned to Glory. “When those fellas start to sober up, and’ they’ve had a chance to lick their wounds, they’re liable to be lookin’ for you’”

  “I’ll be long gone, Sam.”

  “The bus ain’t exactly famous for bein’ on time, Glory.” Sam turned to the men. “Hell,” he said, “I’d take her myself, but my damn truck just busted a clutch this mornin’.” He waited for a reply.

  Lovecraft, giving in to the stalwart gentlemanly air he’d cultivated for years, was about to say yes, but Howard stopped him with a tap on the shoulder.

  “Excuse us for just a moment,” said Howard. He drew Lovecraft a few paces away, out of earshot, and whispered, “We can’t do it.”

  “I don’t relish the idea either, but I pride myself on being a proper gentleman, Bob. Besides, it’s only twenty or thirty miles to Vernon, isn’t it? We’d only have to be inconvenienced by her company for an hour at most.”

  “That ain’t the point.” Howard seemed hesitant to speak his mind about what was really bothering him.

  “Then what, may I ask, is the point? You have rescued this woman from ruffians, but you are now loath to offer her a lift?”

  Howard finally summoned his resolve. “She’s a harlot, HP.”

  Lovecraft wasn’t able to contain his surprise. He looked over at Glory to see if there were any telltale signs in her appearance that would corroborate what he had just heard, but he saw none. She was hardly dressed like a saloon girl, which is how he imagined a prostitute out in the West; nor was she garishly made up in rouge and lipstick.

  Indeed, in his perception, she was not dressed the least bit provocatively and looked very ladylike, except for the men’s boots she wore under her dress. And that, in Lovecraft’s mind, seemed a perfectly rational bit of expediency. “And how did you come upon this lurid revelation?” he asked.

  “The fella at the gas station told me as much.”

  Lovecraft frowned dramatically. “You mean to tell me that the fine upstanding fellow there, covered in automobile grease, the fellow with the delightfully yellow dentition which points to the four quarters of the compass?”