“The name’s Molech another place,” I said. “Second Kings; Preacher Ricks had it for a text one time. How King Joash ruled that no man would make his son or daughter pass through the fire to Molech. You reckon this place is some way like that?”
“Might could be this here place, and places like it in other lands, gave men the idee of fiery gods to burn up their children.”
I hugged my guitar to me, for what comfort it could give. “You wouldn’t tell me all this,” I said, “if you wanted to fool me into the belly of the mountain.”
“I don’t worship no such,” he snapped. “I told ye, I’m here to keep folks from a-meddling into there and not come out no more. It was long years back when I come here to get away from outside things. I wasn’t much good at a man’s work, and folks laughed at how dwarfished-down I was.”
“I don’t laugh,” I said.
“No, I see ye don’t. But don’t either pity me. I wouldn’t like that no more than I’d like laughter.”
“I don’t either pity you, Mr. Sanger. I judge you play the man the best you can, and nobody can do more than that.”
He patted Ung’s grizzled back. “I come here,” he said again, “and I heard tell about this place from the old man who was here then. I allowed I’d take over from him if he wanted to leave, so he left. It wonders me if this sounds like a made-up tale to ye.”
“No, sir, I hark at air word you speak.”
“If ye reckon this here is just some common spot, look on them flowers at the window by ye.”
It was a shaggy bush in the firelight. There were blue flowers. But likewise pinky ones, the color of blood-drawn meat. And dead white ones, with dark spots in them, like eyes.
“Three different flowers on one bush,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s the like of that, nowheres else on this earth.”
“Sassafras has three different leaves on one branch,” I said. “There’ll be a mitten leaf, and a toad-foot leaf next to it, and then just a plain smooth-edged leaf.” I studied the bush. “But those flowers would be special, even if there was just one of a kind on a twig.”
“Ye done harked at what I told, John,” said Maltby Sanger, and put his bottle up to his beard to drink the last drop. “Suit yourself if it makes sense.”
“Sense is what it makes,” I said. “All right, you’ve been here for years. I reckon you live in that little cabin ’round the corner. Does that suit you?”
“It’s got to suit somebody. Somebody’s needed. To guard folks off from a-going in yonder and then not come out.”
I strummed my guitar, tried to think of what to sing. Finally:
“Yonder comes the Devil
From hell’s last bottom floor,
A-shouting and a-singing,
There’s room for many a more.”
“I enjoy to hear ye make music, John,” said Maltby Sanger. “It was all right for ye to come here tonight. No foolishness. I won’t say no danger, but ye’ll escape danger, I reckon.”
I looked toward the open door. It was all black inside—no, not all black. I saw a couple of red points in there. I told myself they were reflected from our fire.
“I’ve been a-putting my mind on what’s likely to be down yonder,” I said. “Recollected all I was told when I was little, about how hell was an everlasting fire down under our feet, like the way heaven was up in the sky over us.”
“Have ye thought lately, the sky ain’t truly up over us no more?” he inquired me. “It’s more like off from us now, since men have gone a-flying off to the moon and are a-fixing to fly farther than that, to the stars. Stars is what’s in the sky, and heaven’s got to be somewheres else. But I ain’t made up my mind on hell, not yet. Maybe it’s truly a-burning away, down below our feet, right this minute.”
“Or either, the fire down in there is what made folks decide what hell was.”
“Maybe that,” he halfway agreed me. “John, it’s nigh onto when I go to sleep. I wish there was two beds in my cabin, but—”
“Just let me sleep out here and keep our fire a-going,” I said. “Keep it a-going, and not let it get away and seek what it might devour.”
“Sure thing, if ye want to.” He got up on his stumpy legs and dragged something out from under that robe he wore. “Ye might could like to have this with ye.”
I took it. It was a great big Bible, so old its leather covers were worn and scraped near about away.
“I thank you, sir,” I said. “I’ll lay a little lightwood on the fire and read in this.”
“Then I’ll see ye when the sun comes up.”
He shuffled off to his shack. Ung stayed there and looked at me. I didn’t mind that, I was a-getting used to him.
Well, gentlemen, I stirred up the fire and put on some chunks of pine so it would burn up strong and bright. I opened the Bible and looked through to the Book of Isaiah, thirty-fourth chapter. I found what I’d recollected to be there:
It shall not be quenched night nor day: the smoke thereof shall go up for ever; from generation to generation it shall lie waste…
On past that verse, there’s talk about dragons and satyrs and such like things they don’t want you to believe in these days. In the midst of my reading, I heard something from that open door, a long, grumbling sigh of sound, and I looked over to see what.
The two red lights moved closer together, and this time they seemed to be set in a lump of something, like eyes in a head.
I got up quick, the Bible in my hand. Those eyes looked out at me, and the red of them burned up bright, then went dim, then bright again. Ung, at my foot, made a burbling noise, like as if it pestered him.
I put down the Bible and picked up a burning chunk from the fire. I made myself walk to the door. My chunk gave me some light to see inside. Sure enough it was a cave in there; what looked like a house outside was just a front, built on by whatever had built it for whatever reason. The cave was hollowed back into the mountain and it had a smooth-looking floor, almost polished, of black rock. Inside, the space slanted inward both ways, to narrowness farther in. It was more like a throat than anything I could say for it. A great big throat, big enough to swallow a man, or more than one man.
Far back hung whatever it was had those eyes. I saw the eyes shine, not just from my flashlight. They had light of their own.
“All right,” I said out loud to the eyes. “Here I am. I look for the truth. What’s the truth about you?”
No answer but a grumble. The thing moved, deep in there. I saw it had, not just that black head with red eyes, it had shoulders and things like arms. It didn’t come close, but it didn’t pull back. It waited for me.
“What’s the truth about you?” I inquired it again. “Might could your name be Molech?”
It made nair sound, but it lifted those long arms. I saw hands like pitchforks. It was bigger than I was, maybe half again bigger. Was it stronger?
A man’s got to be a man sometime, I told myself inside me. I’d come there to find out what was what. There was some strange old truth in there, not a pretty truth maybe, but I’d come to see what it was.
I walked to where the door was fallen off the leather hinges. The red eyes came up bright and died down dull and watched me a-coming. They waited for me, they hoped I’d get close.
I put my foot on where the door log had been once. It was long ago rotted to punk, it crumbled under my boot. I took hold of the jamb and leaned in.
“You been having a time for yourself?” I asked the eyes.
There was light from the chunk I carried, but other light, a ghost of a show of it, was inside. It came from on back in there. It was a kind of smoky reddish light, I thought, you might have called it rosy. It made a glitter on something two-three steps inside.
I spared a look down there to the floor. Gentlemen, it was a jewel, a bunch of jewels, a-shining white and red and green. And big. They were like a bunch of glass bottles for size. Only they weren’t bottles. They shone too bright, too clear, strewed out
there by my foot.
There for the picking up—but if I bent over, there was that one with the red eyes and the black shape, and he could pick me up.
“No,” I said to him, “you don’t get hold of me thattaway,” and I whirled my chunk of fire, to get more light.
There he was, dark and a-standing two-legged like a man, but he was taller than I was, by the height of that round head with the red eyes. And no hair to his black hide, it was as slick as a snake. Long arms and pitchfork hands sort of pawed out toward me, the way a praying mantis does. The head cocked itself. I saw it had something in it besides eyes, it had a mouth, open and as wide as a gravy boat, wet and black, like a mess of hot tar.
“You must have tricked a many a man in here with those jewels,” I said.
He heard me, he knew what I said, knew that I wouldn’t stoop down. He moved in on me.
Those legs straddled. Their knees bent backward, like a frog’s, the feet slapped flat and wide on the floor of the cave, amongst more jewels everywhere. Enough in there to pay a country’s national debt. He reached for me again. His fingers were lumpy-jointed and they had sharp claws, like on the feet of a great big hawk. I moved backward, I reckoned I’d better. And he followed right along. He wanted to get those claws into me.
I backed to the old door-log and near about tripped on it. I dropped the burning chunk and grabbed hold of the fallen-down door with both hands, to stay on my feet. I got hold of its two edges and hiked it between me and that snake-skinned thing that lived inside. I looked past one edge of the door, and all of a sudden I saw him stop.
There was the rosy light in yonder, and outside my chunk blazed where it had fallen. I could see that door rightly for the first time.
It was one of those you used to see in lots of places, made with a thick center piece running from top to bottom betwixt the panels, and two more thick pieces set midpoint of the long one to go right and left to make a cross. In amongst these were set the four old, half-rotted panels. But the cross stood there. And often, I’d heard tell, such doors were made thattaway to keep evil from a-coming through.
So, in the second I did my figuring, I saw why the front had been built on the cave, why that door had been hung there. It was to hold in whatever was inside. And it had worked right well till the door dropped down.
It was a heavy old door, but I muscled it up. I shoved on back into the cave, with the door in front of me like a shield.
Nothing shoved back. I took one step after another amongst those shining jewels, careful to keep from a-tripping on them. I cocked my head leftways to look past the door. That big black somebody moved away from me. I saw the flicker of the rose light from where it came into the cave.
The cross, was it a help? I’d been told that there were crosses long before the one on Calvary, made for power’s sake in old, old lands beyond the sea. Yes, and in this land too, by Indian tribes one place and another. My foot near about skidded on a rolling jewel, but I stayed up.
“In this sign we conquer,” I said, after some king in the olden days, and I believed it. And I went on forward with the door for my sign.
For as long as a breath I shoved up against him. I felt him lean against the other side, like high wind a-blowing. I fought to keep the door on him to push him back, and took a long step and dug in with my foot.
And almighty near fell down a hole all full of the rosy light.
He’d tricked me there where his light came up from. I hung on its edge, a-looking down a hole three-four feet across, deeper than I could ask myself to judge, and away down there was fire, a-dancing and a-streaming—a world, it looked to me, of fire.
On the other side of the door he made a noise. It was a whiny buzz, what you’d expect from a bee as big as a dog. His long old arm snaked round the edge of the door, a-raking with its claws. They snagged into my shirt—I heard it rip. I managed to sidestep clear of that hole, and he buzzed and came again. I shoved hard with the door, put all I could put into it. Heat come in all round me; it was like when you sit in a close room with a hot stove. I smelt something worse than a skunk.
The pressure was there, and then the pressure was all of a sudden gone. I went down, the door in front of me, to slam on the floor with a rattly bang.
I got up quick, without the door. I wondered how to face him. But he wasn’t there. Nowhere.
I stood and trembled and gulped for air. Sweat streamed all over me. I looked up, all ’round me. Sure enough, he was gone. I was all alone in that dark cave, me and the door. And the rosy light was gone.
For the door had fallen whack down on top of it.
I put a knee down on the panel. I could feel a tremble and stir underneath.
“By God Almighty, I’ve got you penned in!” I yelled down to what made the stir in that fiery hole.
It was a-humping to me there. I reached out and grabbed a shiny green jewel. It must have weighed eight pounds or so. I put it on a plank of the cross. I got up on my feet, found more jewels. I laid them on, one next to another, along both arms, to make the cross twice as strong.
“You’re shut up in there now,” I said down to the hole it covered. The door lay still and solid. No more hum below.
I headed out toward the gleam of the cooking fire. My feet felt weak under me. Ung sat out there and looked at me. I wondered if I should ought to get a blanket. Then I didn’t bother. I must have slept.
It was morning’s first gray again, with the stars a-paling out of the sky, when I sat up awake. Maltby Sanger was there, a-building up the fire. “ Ye look to have had ye a quiet night,” he said.
“Me?” I said, and he laughed. Next to the fire he set a saucepan with eggs in it.
“Duck eggs,” he told me. “Ung found them for our breakfast. And I got parched corn, and tomatoes from my garden.”
“And I’ve got a few pinches of coffee, we can boil it in my canteen cup,” I said. “Looky over yonder at the cave.”
He looked. He pulled his whiskers. “Bless my soul,” he said, “the door’s plumb gone off it.”
“The door’s inside, to bottle up what was the trouble in there,” I said.
While he was a-cooking, I told him what I’d met in the cave. He got up with a can of hot coffee in his hand and stumped inside. Out again, he filled one of his old buckets with dirt and stones and fetched it into the cave. Then back for another bucketful of the same stuff, and then another. Finally he came out and washed his hands and served up the eggs. We ate them before the either of us said a word.
“Moloch,” Maltby Sanger said then. “Ye reckon that’s who he is?”
“He didn’t speak his name,” I replied him. “All I guess is, he’ll likely stay under that door with the cross and the weight on it, so long as it’s left to pen him in.”
“So long as it’s left,” he agreed me. “Only ye used them jewels for weight. If somebody comes a-using ’round here and sees them, he might could wag them off. So I put a heap of dirt over them to hide them best I could. Nobody’s a-going to scrabble there so long’s I’m here to keep them from it.”
He stroked his beard and grinned his teeth at me.
“My time’s been long hereabouts, and it’ll be longer. Only after I’m gone can somebody stir him up in yonder. Then the world can suit itself about what to do about him.”
He squinted his eyes to study me. “Now,” he said, “ye’ll likely be a-going yore way.”
“Yes, sir, and I’m honest to thank you for a-letting me found out what I wanted to know.”
I stowed my pack and strapped on the blanket roll.
“Last night,” he said from across the fire, “I’d meant to ask ye to stay on watch here and let me go.”
“Ask me to stay?”
“That’s what. And ye’d have stayed, John, if I’d asked ye the right way. Stayed and kept the watch here.”
I couldn’t tell myself for certain if that was so.
“I aimed for to ask ye,” he said again, “but if I was to go, where’d I
go? Hellfire, John, I been here so long it’s home.”
Ung twinkled an eye, like as if he heard and understood.
“I’ll just stay a-setting here and warn other folks off from a-messing round where that door is,” said Maltby Sanger.
I slung my pack on my shoulders and picked up my guitar. “Sunrise now,” I said.
“Sure enough, sunrise. Good-bye, John. I was proud to have ye here overnight.”
We shook hands. He didn’t seem so dwarfish right then. I found the path I’d come in by, that would take me back to people.
The sun was up. Daytime was come. Back on the way I went, I heard the long, soft hoot of an owl.
Where There’s a Will
Richard Matheson &
Richard Christian Matheson
He awoke.
It was dark and cold. Silent.
I’m thirsty, he thought. He yawned and sat up, fell back with a cry of pain. He’d hit his head on something. He rubbed at the pulsing tissue of his brow, feeling the ache spread back to his hairline.
Slowly, he began to sit up again but hit his head once more. He was jammed between the mattress and something overhead. He raised his hands to feel it. It was soft and pliable, its texture yielding beneath the push of his fingers. He felt along its surface. It extended as far as he could reach. He swallowed anxiously and shivered.
What in God’s name was it?
He began to roll to his left and stopped with a gasp. The surface was blocking him there, as well. He reached to his right and his heart beat faster. It was on the other side, as well. He was surrounded on four sides. His heart compressed like a smashed soft-drink can, the blood spurting a hundred times faster.
Within seconds, he sensed that he was dressed. He felt trousers, a coat, a shirt and tie, a belt. There were shoes on his feet.
He slid his right hand to his trouser pocket and reached in. He palmed a cold, metal square and pulled his hand from the pocket, bringing it to his face. Fingers trembling, he hinged the top open and spun the wheel with his thumb. A few sparks glinted but no flame. Another turn and it lit.
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