by R. R. Irvine
Hurriedly, he pushed all the living room furniture against one wall, rolled back the rugs, then assembled his paints in the middle of the floor. That done, he propped blank canvases around the room until they were like so many white mouths ready to jeer at his failure.
He rubbed his aching left wrist against his thigh before snatching up his palette. Then he squeezed out great gobs of paint.
As he did so, the deadly images caught fire and burned within his brain.
He attacked the nearest canvas. After a few moments, the palette was flung aside. He no longer had time for such niceties; he applied paint directly to the waiting canvases.
At first, he worked with knife and brush, but soon was using his fingers and even his hook. His pace was frenzied.
When daylight began to fade, he paused only long enough to switch on every light. Normally, the bulbs would have been inadequate. But now, shadows seemed more fitting for the dark things he was compelled to paint.
It was four o’clock in the morning when the final scene faded and died inside his head. He dragged himself to the bedroom where he collapsed onto the mattress, praying for sleep, for oblivion. But sleep was impossible for a man so steeped in other men’s terror.
And then there were his own fears. Would the first light of morning reveal his canvases as nothing more than the pitiful delusions of a cripple? The artist in him rebelled at the thought.
He knew there was truth in what he’d done. Because out there, in the next room, was the scene that portrayed his future.
38
HARRIET FELT a rush of relief when Jack’s Jeep stopped in front of the Ledger. She poked at her hair self-consciously. She’d been such a fool, worrying all night that yesterday’s kiss had really meant good-bye.
Tears blurred her vision. By the time she’d blinked them away, Jack was unloading paintings from the Jeep. Her heart began to sing. He’d been telling the truth; he was working again.
More than anything, she wanted to rush outside and help him. But she knew he’d prefer doing it himself, to prove to her that he was fully self-sufficient.
When he brought in the first two paintings, he was carrying them in such a way that she couldn’t get a good look at them.
“Be careful,” he warned, “they’re still wet.” He propped them against the counter, facing inward.
“Aren’t I going to get a viewing?”
“Not yet.”
She threw herself into his arms.
“Watch it, I’m covered with paint,” he said stiffly.
She could smell it, sharpened by his sweat. Pulling back from him, she saw the haunted look in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of answering, he went back to the Jeep.
Her fears of the night before returned.
Jack brought in more canvases. He refused to meet her glance.
Then suddenly she knew what was wrong. He was afraid she wouldn’t like the paintings. She made up her mind quickly: No matter how bad they were, she’d encourage him. A man had to believe in himself.
When all the canvases had been stacked inside the office, against the counter and the front wall, he took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
“This is my commitment to you,” he said. He smiled, but the haunted look persisted. “It’s my will. I’ve had it witnessed. You’re my heir . . . and my love.”
“Jack, this isn’t—”
“Trust me, Harry. Please. I want you to keep this for me, for us.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“That’s my girl.” His voice sounded ragged. He gulped a breath. “Well, it’s now or never. We might as well start the unveiling.”
Dear, sweet Jack, she thought. He was staring at her fearfully, as if she was to be his ultimate critic. She reached for a canvas.
“Not that one!” he said sharply, then swallowed self-consciously. He lowered his voice to add, “We’ll start at the other end.”
He led her down the counter to the first painting that he’d carried in from the Jeep. “Here,” he said, moving her as far back from the canvas as office space allowed, “you can’t get the full effect if you’re standing too close.”
She wanted to kiss him, to reassure him, but he stepped away before she had the chance. When he took hold of the canvas, she saw that his hand was trembling. In fact, she suddenly realized that he was shaking all over. She knew what he was going through, why he had moved her back as far as possible. Up close, she’d see his mistakes.
Harriet braced herself for the worst. Smile, don’t let him see your disappointment. But she wasn’t half prepared.
“Dear God,” she cried out when he exposed the painting.
The picture was monstrous, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from it. Was that how a man died? Stripped of everything but terror? If so, she didn’t want to know about it, least of all see it. But her eyes refused to close.
As if from far away, she heard herself gasp, “It’s Benyon, isn’t it?”
Jack’s “yes” sounded half-strangled.
Although growing physically ill, she couldn’t look away.
“Harry—”
“I don’t want to see any more,” she interrupted. “It’s not right to show such things.” She glanced at him.
His lips pursed, a tight, thin grimace. “I was there, inside him, when I painted it.”
“Jack, why? You’ve never painted like this before.”
“People have to understand what happened. I painted it because I didn’t have any choice.”
“Anybody seeing this will never forget it.”
A great, shuddering sigh escaped her as he began reversing the others, one by one, all except a single painting.
“I want you to hang them for me, Harry, so that the people of Moondance will see them.”
Harriet’s eyes moved quickly from canvas to canvas. The accumulated horror made an immediate reaction impossible. She felt dizzy and had to reach out to steady herself against the wall.
“It will have to be here in the Ledger,” he said. “They’ll cover every bit of wall space in the office.”
She whispered, “Yes.” She knew, like he did, that no one else in town would display them. But the townspeople would come to see them, all right, once the word got out.
And once seen, his paintings would never be forgotten. Jack’s fame would be assured, at least in Moondance. He’d be known as the man who scared a town to death. For certainly the town would die. The paintings would see to that. After seeing them, no one would venture into the Hunting Ground.
She found herself gaping breathlessly at the back of the final, unexposed canvas. A frightening sense of loneliness invaded her, and with it a terrible premonition.
Unable to speak, she raised her arm to point a quivering finger at the last painting.
“It’s something I wish you never had to see,” he said. “But without it, the warning isn’t complete. Without it, some people might not take what I’ve done seriously. With it . . .” He paused, swallowing convulsively. “With it, there can be no denying the truth.”
Harriet felt herself losing control. Her lips trembled; her teeth chattered as she stared at the canvas.
Dear God, it can’t be any worse than the others. But the thought failed to comfort her. Somehow, she knew the worst was yet to come.
“Let’s get it over with,” she said, biting down on her lip until she tasted blood.
“No, Harry,” Jack said quietly. “It would be better if you looked at this after I’ve gone.”
Her head shook an emphatic no. The idea of being alone in the same room with the paintings raised goosebumps over her body. Most of all, she didn’t want to face by herself some fresh scene of horror.
“Believe me, Harry, it’s the best way. God, for me, it’s the only way.”
She hugged herself against the bitter cold that was seeping into her. “Don’t ask me that, darling.”
“I love you,” he murmured, touching her che
ek and kissing her softly. “But I have to go. I have to go up into those mountains again.”
“No!” she cried. “I won’t let you do it.”
Jack’s head shook slowly, sadly. “There’s an angry god waiting for me.”
“Don’t talk like that. If you go into those mountains, I’m coming with you.”
“Harry,” he choked. Without warning, he pulled away and ran from the office. He was in the Jeep and moving away from the curb before she quite realized what had happened.
Then, despite her fear, her premonition, her eyes returned to the waiting canvas. Her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud as she walked over to it. Several times she reached out to turn the painting around. But each time her hand stopped just short of touching it.
“Jack,” she breathed, “you shouldn’t have left me.”
Damnit woman, she told herself, do it and be done. Do it, then get in your car and go after him. You mustn’t let him get away.
Holding her breath, Harriet grasped the canvas by the edges so as not to smear the paint, then quickly, before resolve failed, she reversed it.
The horror of it was like a physical blow. She reeled back.
The room tilted. She fell heavily against the counter. In doing so, she dislodged the painting, which slid to the floor, faceup.
Part of her wanted to stomp it, to destroy the dreadful vision. But she couldn’t. As terrible as it was, it was Jack. Perhaps the only picture she’d ever have of him. Her Jack. Her love.
The whimpering sounds coming from her were like those of a wounded animal. Her tears splashed down on the immutable oils.
The Jack she saw there was three-dimensional. His arms were thrust forward until they appeared to protrude from the canvas itself. Both arms ended in stumps—two awful, bloody stumps.
“No!” she cried. “I won’t let it happen. He’s suffered enough. He’s mine, Koshari. You can’t have him.”
With that, Harriet grabbed her car keys from the countertop, rushed to the door of her apartment, and jerked it open. Shotgun, who’d been pawing frantically at the other side, hurled himself into the office, his head swinging back and forth as he sought the source of her terror.
“Come on,” she told him. “Jack saved your life once. Now it’s our turn.”
The dog seemed to understand. It growled menacingly and then followed her outside to the station wagon.
As she opened the car door, she glared up at the Uintas and shook her fist. “There’s an older God than you, Koshari.”
She prayed to that God even as she drove toward the mountains.
THE END