Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 Canadian

by McIlwraith, Dorothy

  That experience in the recent past had been so horrible that my mind—under the shock of Ed's death and the Rons-ford business—had kind of thought up a lot of things that, well, maybe weren't so. I'd poked here and there in my mind for the memory of the official explanation of that night as given me in the Northville Hospital by the solicitous doctor when I'd come to. Ed had died in

  the fire. Somehow I'd gotten out, and that was that.

  I suited my conduct to my plan of action, I said no more about Big Mike. I was myself completely, except for putting on a bit of palaver with the nurses and doctors. I think I was beginning to fool them. I knew I was the day Dr. Blake called me and said:

  "Mrs. Meglund, it seems to us that your condition has taken a turn for the better. You had a very great shock, a shock of the sort that can temporarily, shall we say, affect one's mind, but we feel you've weathered the storm rather well. I think the time is coming when you will be able to* go back out into the world.

  "Oh, perhaps there will be relapses. You will have fears and anxiety, and I should certainly suggest that you keep in occasional touch with someone who understands your problem, at least for a while. But on the whole your picture looks quite rosy, Mrs. Meglund."

  He beamed, obviously taking the full credit himself. As I left his office, turning over in my mind the words I would have Hked to have said to him, telling him what a stupid little man he was, telling him how I'd fooled them all, and now when I chose it, they thought I'd gone from sickness to wellness, I realized I was no longer afraid of anything outside, even of Big Mike.

  That much of Blake's explanations probably was true. I'd built up this thing, and of course it was impossible. It was absurd! I sat in my room feeling very satisfied, drumming my fingers against the ledge and looking out. It was very early fall now, and the trees and shrubbery were beginning to lose some of. their lush greenness. I hadn't

  THE MURDEROUS STEAM SHOVEL

  53

  wanted to seem eager to Blake. I hadn't wanted to say, "Doctor, when can I get out of this joint and the sooner the better."

  It would fit the whole picture better if I continued to let him play the big shot, to let him think he'd guided me along.

  Three days later in the morning Blake sent for me.

  "Mrs. Meglund," he greeted me, "I feel you can go home anytime now. Have you plans ? Perhaps you'll return to Northville."

  T TOLD him, no, I didn't think I'd do A that. There was a little money left from my husband's insurance, I mentioned candidly, and I thought I'd travel a bit.

  "Good," he nodded sagely. "When would you like to leave?"

  I bit my lip and kept "Today, as soon as possible," from popping out.

  "Oh, sometime tomorrow afternoon," I suggested with an airy wave of my hand as though I really didn't care to leave at all.

  Vilma's smart don't you think?

  "Tomorrow afternoon ? Splendid ?!" echoed Dr. Blake,

  He talked to me further then for well over an hour, I'd say, and I struggled to keep any trace of boredom from my expression. He wrung my hand.

  "I'll make all the necessary arrange-in en Is."

  I left his office, for the last time I knew, and with my head turned away, I could feel the smirk of satisfaction ooze across my face.

  As I walked through the corridor toward the wing, I contemplated with what I thought was justifiable glee, the life that lay ahead of me. And not having

  Ed holding me back was more advantage than disadvantage. I'd get by and more!

  T CLIMBED the one flight to my room. I supposed I'd better start getting some of my things together, but it was nearly lunchtime. I'd wait until afterward. I went to the window, looked out idly—and something hit me in the pit of the stomach. For there, the top of its upper structure almost on a level with my eyes, was Big Mike! I'd know that steam shovel anywhere! The red operator's cab on the left side, the rest of it drab-painted, the big bucket shovel— everything came back to me then.

  The memory, the hysterical fear, the knowledge, yes, the definite knowledge that this was not something of dead steel and iron but an inspired, thinking murderous monster!

  "Miss Meadows!" I tried to take the edge of screaming out of my voice. "Miss Meadows!"

  I heard the nurse's heavy steps on the stairs outside my room. My nails bit into the palm of my hands as I fought for control. Miss Meadows came into the room.

  "What's the matter, dear?"

  I pointed out the window. "What's that doing out there?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

  The nurse looked. "Oh, didn't you know? We're going to excavate to build onto this wing. It's just a steamshovel, my dear.

  I knew she was taking in my white face and I put my hands behind my back to hide their trembling. But despite my efforts, fear ran away with me. I sat down suddenly on my bed because of the weakness in my knees. "Mis* Meadows/' I gasped, "I've got

  THE MURDEROUS STEAM SHOVEL

  to get out of here quickly, as soon as possible? Dr. Blake is letting me go. We decided on tomorrow, but I want to get out of here today. I want to leave now! Please, oh, please!"

  Miss Meadows had the usual answer, a pat on the shoulder, the same "Now just take it easy, dear. You stay here and I'll talk to Dr. Blake."

  I sat there and the minutes ticked away. I didn't want to get up and look again. I didn't want to see Big Mike, ever. I'd thought I never would see him again and here he was, and with him, the fear that choked me at the throat. Finally, I heard two pairs of steps coming up the stairs of the wing. Dr. Blake came in followed by Miss Meadows.

  "What's all this about, Mrs. Meg-lund?"

  I made a mighty effort.

  "I ... I just decided I wanted to leave today, Doctor."

  I realized the danger of my position as Miss Meadows murmured, "The steam shovel outside seems to upset her, Doctor."

  Blake looked out the window. He managed a hearty laugh.

  "Is that true, Mrs. Meglund? Does that metal eyesore out there worry you V He answered his own question. "Of course not. There's an unpleasant association, I dare say, but these are the things you must control."

  I gripped the edge of the bed tightly.

  "Can't I please leave today, Doctor?"

  He frowned a bit impatiently.

  "I've made all the arrangements for tomorrow, Mrs. Meglund. You've been with us quite a few weeks, you know. Certainly you can put up with us one more day."

  'It's just that I , today I"

  , that I have to go

  T"*HEY were both looking at me sharp-ly and I lowered my head. I could feel the hysterical tears course down my cheeks now. The doctor crossed to the bed and gripped me firmly by the shoulder;

  "Now this is absurd," his voice was stern. "You've got to get hold of yourself. I have just certified you as on the road to recovery. You're not going to make me reverse my prognosis, are you? Please stand up."

  I did, and he led me to the window. "Face this thing and understand what it is."

  J looked. I looked at the cables and the machinery and the huge tub of a shovel, the cruel teeth that were slack, waiting— and by my side, Dr. Blake's voice droned on—"Don't you see it's all association .,. that unpleasant night . . . the death of your husband . . . shock. . . ."

  The monster, Big Mike, down there had a face and the face was looking at me grinning. The shovel was its mouth, the cab a red, baleful eye fixed on my window. I screamed then, whirled and ran for the door. I had to get away. That was all that mattered. I had to! I had to!

  The shock of Miss Meadows' heavy body brought me back to reality somewhat as the nurse stepped in front of me just before I reached the door, and threw her strong arms expertly around me. I realized then that I could never convince these people, or anyone else, about Big Mike, for to convince them of that would be to convince them of my insanity. One wu so and one was

  THE MURDEROUS STEAM SHOVEL

  55

  not so, only I knew that. I had to get away now.

>   I struggled and writhed in the nurse's arms. My nails raked the square unimaginative face in front of my own. Meadow's grunted in pain and stepped away momentarily but Dr. Blake had me by the arm and was calling down the stairs. I twisted desperately and jerked myself free. But crowding up the stairs now were two more nurses and a male attendant. I believe then I was out of my head for I threw myself down the stairs at them. The women went down under my weight with sh rill cries of alarm and pain, but the male attendant caught me and held my arms to my sides as though I were a child. I kicked but it did no good.

  I was taken back into my room, Dr. Blake discreetly shutting the door behind us. Then I was put to bed in a restraining sheet. Do you know what they are? I'd seen them used for other patients, never guessing, never thinking— You can hardly move once you are in one. You can't get away and your bed is the trap. You can wiggle and struggle and thresh and fight but you're held as though in a sack. Your head is out and you can move it but your arms and legs are securely imprisoned. •

  Dr. Blake forced me to take a sedative then, and after a while, one by one the attendant, Blake, and the three nurses left the room.

  I would go to sleep now, I understood from their talk.

  Miss Meadows was the last to go, her bovine indifferent face looking back at me from the door. In a drowsy way— for the sedative was beginning to work —I was glad for the nail marks on her cheek. A black pit of unconsciousness

  opened up for me then as I slipped off into drugged sleep.

  I don't know how long it was before I woke up. It must have been quite a few hours, for darkness had fallen. I finally figured that it had to be fairly late because the small sounds of the sanitarium kept up during the early evening were now all absent. I struggled briefly but the restraining sheet was still my complete master. I was thirsty, cramped, and very uncomfortable. I had to get out of this thing. I called. I screamed, and after an eternity I heard steps upon the stairs. My door opened and someone lit the light at my bedside. It was Miss Meadows. I swore at her, I cried, I pleaded, and she just looked at me silently. I could see her gaze was professional, to ascertain whether I was still snug and safe—safe, that was a good one—in the restraining sheet.

  Satisfied, she m lapped out the light and without answering any of my pleas to be let up, went out the door. I heard her steps descending the long stairs, and then there was the deep silence of late night.

  T FOUGHT with myself then, using the A weapons Dr. Blake had given me, things I had laughed at once but used now against my fear of the steam shovel. So what if Big Mike had come across the state for this job. There were reasons, logical reasons probably. It had nothing to do with me or the steam shovel. The Greene Construction Company was pretty big. Maybe Big Mike was the only kind of shovel that could do this particular kind of job at Byerly Home. That last thought had an ominous significance. Big Mike was the only kind of steam shovel that could do this jobl_

  THE MURDEROUS STEAM SHOVEL

  Then came what I had been waiting for, what I knew would come, what I knew deep down I'd hear again ever since that first night I'd heard it in Northville. The tractor motor of Big Mike starting up, rumbling into life, vibrating and throbbing! The first sounds of the treads turning over as they scraped and bruised the earth, coming toward my window. Sounds no less horrible because I denied them and at the same time tried to drown them out with my own screams. The deep-throated combustion of Big Mike's engine was deafening now. It reverberated beneath me on the porch ceiling, which was also my own floor.

  Then a new sound, a tautening of cables, the winch crying, steel against steel as the shovel part extended delicate-

  ly and felt, felt through the darkness for what it wanted.

  I prayed for unconsciousness and perhaps my prayers or my mad, frenzied struggles to get loose from the restraining sheet that held me caused me to become suddenly light-headed and faint. As I lay limp with a deeper blackness than of night exploding inside my eyeballs and head, there was still the last edge of consciousness, of life that registered crystal clear the thunderous sounds of Big Mike. The tearing, ripping shock of the shovel teeth at the wood under my bed, the close-by growl and the snarl of this immortal monster, the sudden sickening feeling of crashing impact ... of being scooped upward at great speed . . . and men . . . nothing I

  Homecoming

  HE Daemon said that he would take me home To the pale, shadowy land I half-recalled As a high place of stair and terrace, walled With marble balustrades that sky-winds comb, While miles below a maze of dome on dome And tower on tower beside a sea lies sprawled. Once more, he told me. I would stand enthralled On those old heights, and hear the far-off foam.

  All this he promised, and through sunset's gate

  He swept me, past the lapping lakes of flame.

  And red-gold thrones of gods without a name

  Who shriek in fear at some impending fate.

  Then a black gulf with sea-sounds in the night:

  *'Here was your home," he mocked, "when you had sight!**

  -H. P. Lomonlt

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  <&fe Mad Dancers

  "The effects of the Black Plague had not yet subsided, and the graves of millions of its victims were scarcely closed, when a strange delusion arose in Germany . . . called the dancing mania."'—Epidemics of the Middle Ages.

  ~/. F. C. Hecker.

  THOUGH it was early of an evening in June, the horizontal rays of the sun stiil caught the cupola of the Octagonal Chapel in Aix-la-Chapelle. It was the eve of St. John's, 1374, and in the streets preparations for the festival were under way. Deserted, however, was
the interior of the chapel, except for Christian and Mina, holding hands and standing quietly in the center, the boy gazing at the floor, die girl looking upward.

  The plague swept on across the land ivith a dread meaning

  surely known only to the Devil.

  A beam from the sun had struck through one of the little windows above the gallery, caught a portion of the great chandelier of gilded copper, presentation of Frederick Barbarossa more than 200 years before, and the reflections had spread through the whole structure so that it caught and dazzled the wondering eyes of Mina.

  But it was the slab at their feet upon which Christian was reflecting. It bore the simple inscription, Carlo Magno. By

  the strict measure of time, Giristoplier Columbus is less remote to us of 1915 than Charlemagne was to Christian NoM's generation. To this young student, however, Charlemagne was very real. Christian knew more about Charlemagne than did anyone else in Aix-la-Chapelle, but that was natural for one whose thirst for knowledge was so great. These, however, were the Dark Ages, and it was not entirely respectable to extend one's

  ROGER S. VREELAND

  THE MAD DANCERS

  knowledge beyond the dogmas of the church.

  Christian wanted to be, of all things, a physician. So it was gossiped about, though his friends and relatives tried to hush it. Since the papal bull of Boniface VIII forbidding the boiling of human bones, physiology was rather at a standstill. Christian's mother's brother, however, was head of the medical faculty at the University of Paris, which being 200 years old had a good reputation; and it was known that Christian's uncle desired him as a pupil.

  But, so great a man was Charlemagne, thought Christian. "If only the things he had stood for had survived," he said aloud.

  "Yes," replied Mina abstractedly, still enraptured by the chandelier.