Other Kingdoms

by Richard Matheson

  Finally, I had to speak, though.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Which only evoked a fresh torrent of tears, another moan of despair.

  “I guess you are,” I said.

  For some reason, that brought on a smile. Coupled with her pained expression, it was reduced to a grimace. “Yes, Alex,” she said.

  Why does she so easily address me by my world name? I wondered. I let it go.

  And yet I couldn’t. Not completely. “Did you always know this?” I asked. This? I thought. What part of it?

  She seemed to know. I’d forgotten she was telepathic. “Yes,” she said.

  “And yet—” I hesitated. I was slipping into exception speaking now.

  I did it, anyway. Forgive me, Lord. She was so desolate. She deserved better.

  But did I give it to her? I did not. Why? I was desolate myself. I was on the verge of losing the love of my life. Get it, folks? Nineteen. Not too smart. Hurting. Reacting, like the kid I still was.

  “You knew it when they—diminished me?” I asked.

  She drew in a long shuddering breath. “I wouldn’t let myself believe it.”

  Wouldn’t believe it, eh? The sharp-tongued lawyer in my brain contested her. I felt justification and guilt combined. Especially when Ruthana sobbed again and clung to me more tightly.

  I understand. I wanted to say it. To comfort her. But my teenage brain (Jeez, I wasn’t even twenty yet!) rebelled. It isn’t fair! I wanted to say that. But, at least, I had enough control, enough sympathy. I didn’t say it.

  “It isn’t Gilly, then,” I did say; to calm her, I thought.

  It was labor for her to speak. I noticed how red and inflamed her eyes were, poor sweet thing.

  “No,” she said. “I could have managed him.”

  Still, that assurance in herself where her brother was concerned. I didn’t count her reply. What about the shellycoat? I could have said. What about the powder in my eyes? I said nothing. Why bother anyway?

  I was losing direction, I realized. I was about to give up the only woman (was she a woman? a girl? an astral being?) I had ever loved. Or (I now know) would ever love. I tightened my grip on her and sobbed myself; I confess, it startled me. “I love you, Ruthana. I adore you.”

  “Oh, Alexi!” she cried. God bless her, she called me by the name I’d taken in her land. “I love you so! I’ll die when you leave!”

  “Don’t say that,” I pleaded. “I need to remember you soaring through the trees. Invisible. Enchanted. Bathing your exquisite body in the waterfall unseen, and laughing in the woods, causing leaves to rustle. Dancing in the glades, a vision of innocence and playfulness. Don’t take all that away from me!” (Where did those words come from?)

  “Oh, Alexi, never, never! I promise you!” We had our last passionate kiss. Then she spoke aloud to me, a final blessing by someone she called the White Lady. I have never forgotten it.

  What has not worked will now succeed.

  Those who cause you distress will change or vanish from your life.

  Doors of opportunity will open unexpectedly.

  What you believe will prosper.

  Your mind will be free.

  New ideas will come to you.

  You will be kind and generous to others.

  You will be truthful in all things.

  Smiling now, her tears controlled, Ruthana reached into a pocket and took out something. Which she laid in the palm of my right hand.

  The most enormous emerald I have ever seen. Maybe not as big as Harold’s gold lump, but big. I have never shown it to an expert, God knows never thought of selling it. You know why.

  “I’ll keep it always,” I told her. “I’ve had enough gray dust in my life.”

  She laughed, then looked serious. “I want you to keep it always. To remember me by.”

  “I will,” I promised her. A promise I have always kept.

  I was already dressed in human clothes Eana had altered to fit me. Despite my growth I was still a good deal short of six feet two inches—although I was sure I’d regain that height. My bones and flesh were still in the achy act (oh dear, combo) of restructuring. Soon I’d be back to the world. Which, at the moment, I had scant desire to rejoin.

  Anyway, Ruthana walked me through the woods (still bright with summer green), her hand in mine. Strange but, now, she seemed to me more of the different race she was—all variant, all powerful, totally mysterious. I glanced at her once. I preferred to look ahead and, believe it or not, although she still was my beautiful Ruthana, something in her expression differed from what I had grown accustomed to. She was closer to being an exotic, faraway creature who had—it now struck me as miraculous—told me that she loved me.

  I looked at the woods. I felt a pang of regret that I had said good-bye (I guess she was aware of my presence) to my daughter. For my entire life, I have conjectured what she looked like as she aged. However gradually, I could not imagine. Ruthana? If she was fortunate. My genes surely held her back, poor child. I was handsome, yes, but after all, I was a human being and what could a faerie progeny expect from that?

  * * *

  When we reached the path, I saw that we were directly opposite Magda’s burned-out house. The Gatford citizens—a pox on them—had never bothered to repair it. I wonder, now (circa 1982), if they ever did.

  Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they’d tried and been dissuaded. “Don’t go in there—if you’re tempted to,” Ruthana told me. “She’s still there.”

  That gave me the shudders. I used that imaginary scene in one of my novels. MIDNIGHT WITCH, as I recall.

  Ruthana kissed me gently. “Remember me,” she murmured.

  “Good God, do you think I won’t?” I said. With my usual teenage conceit.

  She smiled, understanding. She still had that ability, I recognized. “No, I don’t,” she said. “I know you will.”

  “I always will,” I swore. “Oh, God, I’m going to miss you, Ruthana!”

  She kissed me again, more ardently now. Then she smiled. I saw tears rising in her eyes. “I’m going to vanish now,” she said.

  And so she did. One second there, one second not. My Ruthana. Disappearing in the woods.

  Not in my heart.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I suspect this will be the final chapter of my book. It pains me to say it. Why? Because I’ve spent so many pleasant hours telling you my story. I hate to see it end. However—

  To continue.

  I returned to the States six months after my twentieth birthday—which I celebrated by tossing my cookies in the North Atlantic. I’d been doing it all week—the crossing marked by endless tidal waves. I call them that. They were probably just big waves. I have a tendency to exaggerate—or have you noticed? But not the story itself. I swear to God it’s true. Well, believe it or not.

  I’d say I returned to the United States, but as we know, they’re hardly united. Massachusetts—Texas? Sure. Practically twins. West Virginia—California? Joined at the hip. You get the point.

  For some insane reason, I took a trip to Brooklyn to see the old homestead. Not that I intended to ring the doorbell. The thought of being confronted by him was not to be considered. I don’t think he was there, anyway. I should have known when I saw, parked at the curb, an automobile that was probably driven by a sentient being. Not the funereal, hearselike limo he usually chauffeured. Sitting straight up, that “Get out of my way, I am Captain Bradford White, USN” look on his iron-bound face.

  No, he wasn’t there. Thank God for that. What if, by accident, he’d stepped out, seen me, and without a moment’s hesitation, began to lambaste me for my failings? I would have had to kill him or, at least, taken advantage of my newfound faerie power (not utilized yet) to reduce him to a pulp. Just kidding. I’ve never had that much power. It would have been nice, though.

  I couldn’t stay in Brooklyn. The remotest possibility that the Captain and I might cross paths was enough to send me scuttling for the
subway. I took a train to Lower Manhattan, where I rented a small (translation: “cheap”) apartment. I purchased a portable typewriter and paper, contacted a publisher, and asked if he’d like to see my novel. He said yes and, making a long story short (for once), it got published. MIDNIGHT sold well enough, and he said would I place a bit more emphasis on the “scary” stuff in the second novel? That was amenable to me. After losing Ruthana and vomiting my way across the Atlantic, I was in little mood to take on a tale of romance.

  So I wrote MIDNIGHT DARKNESS. The publisher like the repetition of the word “midnight,” so I suggested a series of Gothic novels using that word. He agreed and asked if I minded the pen name Arthur Black. I didn’t. In my frame of mind, he could have called me Daniel Death. (I even suggested that, which amused him no end.) So Arthur Black entered the world. Happy Birthday, Mr. Black! Long may you engrave! Which he did. Twenty-seven of the damn atrocities.

  One nice thing happened while I was occupied in my boiling pot. I had (almost) become accustomed to having nightmares about my days (and nights) in the trenches. I would have thought any nightmares would have to do with the monsters I’d faced in Faerieland. Not so. No nightmares at all, as a matter of fact. Only lovely dreams about Ruthana, the two of us walking in the lovely woods, hand in hand, talking. Embracing. Making love softly. Wonderful dreams. I came to the assumption that Ruthana was responsible for the cessation of the awful trench dreams, commencement of the lovely ones. Why not? She had the power. I knew she did.

  Then the dreams stopped altogether.

  * * *

  It was June of 1921. I was walking on Sixth Avenue. I’d sold my third MIDNIGHT novel. I was acquiring a modest reputation as a writer (not an author, God knew) of “dependable” material. There was talk (okay with me) of extending my contract to include five more MIDNIGHT novels. I’d even later allowed myself the luxury of permitting my basic social crankiness to enter MIDNIGHT MONSTERS, said monster being the offspring of the Hiroshima blast. I pride (pride? come on) myself that I was one of the first writers to create these atomic offshoots. As my Professor Morlock expressed it, “How sad to have released the inner power of the atom only to kill.” But now I’m pontificating. Sorry.

  Where was I? Walking on Sixth Avenue. Brooding over Ruthana. I did that all the time. The loss had so embittered me that it colored my every approach to life. Frankly, I was surprised that the emerald hadn’t turned back to dust. That I couldn’t understand. It comforted me (a little) that I still retained this symbol of my feeling for Ruthana. I often sat at night, staring at it, really expecting it to recede to its original state, making it known that Ruthana was lost to me forever.

  It never did. That seemed a mystery to me. But I accepted it. It was all I had. That glittering jewel of perfect green, unchanging, beautiful, reassuring.

  I almost missed the window—it was in an antique shop. I’d been there several times. Then I saw it and I turned back suddenly, staring at—a figure. Eight inches high. Immaculately sculpted. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Had he (no, that was absurd) posed for it? Impossible, I thought. And yet it was him. I would have sworn to it.

  Garal.

  I stared at the figure intently, endlessly. That kind, wonderful face. Deep with knowledge, warm with understanding. How could the artist manage that?

  I had to know.

  Entering the shop, I accosted the clerk—who turned out to be the owner of the shop. I never got his name.

  “That figure,” I started.

  “Figure?” He smiled at me.

  “In the window,” I said. Of the faerie, I almost added, then didn’t. “The—old man.”

  “Oh, yes. Garal,” said the owner.

  Something like an electric shock spasmed through me. “Garal,” I repeated numbly.

  “Yes,” said the man. “Would you like to take a look at him?”

  I could only nod. I wondered if he could see the stricken expression I was sure was on my face. If he did, he said nothing about it. He walked to the front window, picked up the figure, and carried it back. I almost cried aloud at him for holding Garal by the head. But I controlled my reaction. He’d think me even stranger than I felt he already did.

  He set the figure down, and I pretended to examine it, an appraising potential buyer. I even heard myself murmur, “Hmm.” As though considering purchase. I tried to ignore the heavy pulsing of my heart. Close to pounding, in fact.

  I began to speak, but several separate questions emerged in a jumble of nervous sounds. I pretended to be amused by my verbal medley, took a deep breath, and inquired (attemptedly casual). “The name? Where did it come from?”

  “No idea,” said the man. “That’s been its name as long as I can remember.”

  “You don’t know where it came from?” I said.

  “The man who sold it to me, I guess,” replied the man.

  “Was he … English?” I asked.

  “Think he was.”

  “I see.” Nodding. Feigning not to be deeply involved as I was. Had the artist lived with the clan? Had he left as I did? Had he sculpted an image of Garal? Too many unanswerable questions. Certainly in a Sixth Avenue antique shop.

  I was unable to pursue the matter further. I paid for the figure ($250, a good chunk of my money—although I would have put out a thousand if it had come to that). Heart still pounding, I took a taxicab back to my apartment (another expense I had never dared to venture). I wanted to get home. There was something I had to do.

  * * *

  There was a cast-iron frying pan in my kitchenette. I’d never touched it. It reminded me too much of the terrible night in Comfort Cottage when I was—misguidedly—trying to protect myself from attack by Ruthana. Now I had to touch it. Had to almost fill it with water. Seeing the figure of Garal gave me the idea—I thought the inspiration—of contacting Ruthana by scrying.

  I carried the partially full pan into the main room and set it down in a patch of shadows. Then, lying on my chest beside it, I concentrated on the motionless water. It had worked so immediately when I’d contacted Haral. If it was true that Ruthana had bestowed some manner of psychic awareness on me, wouldn’t it be as immediate now?

  Immediate it was. A flash of clouds across the surface of the water. Red. Flaming scarlet. Then what looked like mist. Or smoke. And the sound of distant screaming. Why was Ruthana screaming?

  Suddenly, a ghostlike phantom came hurtling at me. Shrieking with rage. Demented, murderous rage. How could Ruthana—?

  In an instant, I knew it wasn’t her.

  Magda’s twisted maniacal face filled the water surface. Teeth bared, a scream of insane hatred flooding from her mouth. Dear God, how she hated me!

  With a cry of dread, I overturned the frying pan. Water splashed across the wood floor, the screaming stopped. “I should have known,” I kept repeating in a feeble voice. To this day, I can invoke a sense of sickened dread in myself, remembering those hideous moments. Guilt as well. How much I’d hurt Magda, I never could decide. I tried a lot.

  * * *

  It was not until the next afternoon that I did what I should have done in the first place.

  I pulled down all the shades, making the parlor relatively dim. I was going to burn a candle I’d purchased in a psychic shop, then decided against it. Either I had some powers of my own, or this attempt was doomed to failure. But I would not succumb to Magda-style wicce. I would perform this rite with simple honesty.

  Garal’s figure was set in the middle of the floor. I sat, cross-legged, facing it.

  “Garal,” I said. I didn’t chant it. This was without occult guile. I spoke to him directly, as though he literally existed in the figure. Garal. My mentor. My teacher. My dear friend. “Please come to me,” I asked. “I need to talk with you.”

  Silence in my parlor. Except, of course, for the occasional rumble of a passing elevated train.

  “Please come to me, Garal,” I said. I was absolutely certain that he would.

  I don’t k
now if the figure suddenly expanded to become him (I’d lost track of the figure), but whatever happened, there he was, just as abruptly as he’d appeared in the woods of Northern England.

  “Yes, Alex,” he said. As casually as though his appearance were a matter-of-fact occurrence.

  The pounding of my heart had lessened. I was with my teacher again. His smile filled me with tranquillity. And yet I had to know. “Ruthana,” I said. “Is she all right?”

  His expression grew disheartened. “Ruthana left us in April,” he said.

  I couldn’t speak. The room grew dark around me. Left us? Then I spoke. I had to know for certain.

  “Died?” I asked. Was that my voice? Surely not. It was so thin, so weak, so shaky. “Passed on?”

  “Yes, Alex,” he said.

  Then no more, regarding me in silence. April, it occurred to me, was when the lovely dreams had ended. It was her, then.

  “Why?” I finally said.

  “Her heart broke,” Garal answered.

  “No,” I sobbed. “She told me—”

  “That she’d be all right?” said Garal.

  “Yes.” I was trying not to cry but felt tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “She wanted you to leave without regret,” Garal said. “She loved you that much.”

  “And I loved her,” I told him, my voice broken to the point of inaudibility.

  “I know you did,” said Garal. “It was a faultless love.” He said nothing more, watching my helpless weeping sympathetically.

  “And my daughter?” I asked.

  “She is well,” Garal told me.

  I stiffened then, reactive anger in my still-immature brain. “I suppose Gilly’s glad I lost Ruthana,” I said.

  “Gilly is gone,” Garal told me.

  “Good,” I said. “I hope a hunter shot him.”

  “He did,” said Garal. “Gilly shifted to the body of a wolf and chased the hunter too far.”

  “Good,” I said again. At least there was that small satisfaction. (inadequate combo). It did nothing to alleviate my heartache about Ruthana’s death, but it helped.