Deathbird Stories

by Harlan Ellison

  “Then why don’t you use that hypo and let me out of here.”

  “Shut up, Mother.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nathan. It’s hours if I’m lucky. Months if I’m not. We’ve had this conversation before. You know I always win.”

  “Did I ever tell you you were a bitchy old lady?”

  “Many times, but I love you anyhow.”

  He got up and walked to the wall. He could not walk through it, so he went around the inside of the room.

  “You can’t get away from it.”

  “Mother, Jesus! Please!”

  “All right. Let’s talk about the business.”

  “I couldn’t care less about the business right now.”

  “Then what should we talk about? The lofty uses to which an old lady can put her last moments?”

  “You know, you’re really ghoulish. I think you’re enjoying this in some sick way.”

  “What other way is there to enjoy it.”

  “An adventure.”

  “The biggest. A pity your father never had the chance to savor it.”

  “I hardly think he’d have savored the feeling of being stamped to death in a hydraulic press.”

  Then he thought about it, because that little smile was on her lips again. “Okay, he probably would have. The two of you were so unreal, you’d have sat there and discussed it and analyzed the pulp.”

  “And you’re our son.”

  He was, and he was. And he could not deny it, nor had he ever. He was hard and gentle and wild just like them, and he remembered the days in the jungle beyond Brasilia, and the hunt in the Cayman Trench, and the other days working in the mills alongside his father, and he knew when his moment came he would savor death as she did.

  “Tell me something. I’ve always wanted to know. Did Dad kill Tom Golden?”

  “Use the needle and I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m a Stack. I don’t bribe.”

  “I’m a Stack, and I know what a killing curiosity you’ve got. Use the needle and I’ll tell you.”

  He walked widdershins around the room. She watched him, eyes bright as the mill vats.

  “You old bitch.”

  “Shame, Nathan. You know you’re not the son of a bitch. Which is more than your sister can say. Did I ever tell you she wasn’t your father’s child?”

  “No, but I knew.”

  “You’d have liked her father. He was Swedish. Your father liked him.”

  “Is that why Dad broke both his arms?”

  “Probably. But I never heard the Swede complain. One night in bed with me in those days was worth a couple of broken arms. Use the needle.”

  Finally, while the family was between the entree and the dessert, he filled the syringe and injected her. Her eyes widened as the stuff smacked her heart, and just before she died she rallied all her strength and said, “A deal’s a deal. Your father didn’t kill Tom Golden, I did. You’re a hell of a man, Nathan, and you fought us the way we wanted, and we both loved you more than you could know. Except, dammit, you cunning s.o.b., you do know, don’t you?”

  “I know,” he said, and she died; and he cried; and that was the extent of the poetry of it.

  16

  He knows we are coming.

  They were climbing the northern face of the onyx mountain. Snake had coated Nathan Stack’s feet with the thick glue and, though it was hardly a country walk, he was able to keep a foothold and pull himself up. Now they had paused to rest on a spiral ledge, and Snake had spoken for the first time of what waited for them where they were going.

  “He?”

  Snake did not answer. Stack slumped against the wall of the ledge. At the lower slopes of the mountain they had encountered sluglike creatures that had tried to attach themselves to Stack’s flesh, but when Snake had driven them off they had returned to sucking the rocks. They had not come near the shadow creature. Farther up, Stack could see the lights that flickered at the summit; he had felt fear that crawled up from his stomach. A short time before they had come to this ledge they had stumbled past a cave in the mountain where the bat creatures slept. They had gone mad at the presence of the man and the Snake, and the sounds they had made sent waves of nausea through Stack. Snake had helped him and they had gotten past. Now they had stopped and Snake would not answer Stack’s questions.

  We must keep climbing.

  “Because he knows we’re here.” There was a sarcastic rise in Stack’s voice.

  Snake started moving. Stack closed his eyes. Snake stopped and came back to him. Stack looked up at the one-eyed shadow.

  “Not another step.”

  There is no reason why you should not know.

  “Except, friend, I have the feeling you aren’t going to tell me anything.”

  It is not yet time for you to know.

  “Look: just because I haven’t asked, doesn’t mean I don’t want to know. You’ve told me things I shouldn’t be able to handle…all kinds of crazy things…I’m as old as, as…I don’t know how old, but I get the feeling you’ve been trying to tell me I’m Adam…”

  That is so.

  “…uh.” He stopped rattling and stared back at the shadow creature. Then, very softly, accepting even more than he had thought possible, he said, “Snake.” He was silent again. After a time he asked, “Give me another dream and let me know the rest of it?”

  You must be patient. The one who lives at the top knows we are coming but I have been able to keep him from perceiving your danger to him only because you do not know yourself.

  “Tell me this, then: does he want us to come up…the one on the top?”

  He allows it. Because he doesn’t know.

  Stack nodded, resigned to following Snake’s lead. He got to his feet and performed an elaborate butler’s motion: after you, Snake.

  And Snake turned, his flat hands sticking to the wall of the ledge, and they climbed higher, spiraling upward toward the summit.

  The Deathbird swooped, then rose toward the Moon. There was still time.

  17

  Dira came to Nathan Stack near sunset, appearing in the board room of the industrial consortium Stack had built from the empire left by his family.

  Stack sat in the pneumatic chair that dominated the conversation pit where top-level decisions were made. He was alone. The others had left hours before and the room was dim with only the barest glow of light from hidden banks that shone through the soft walls.

  The shadow creature passed through the walls–and at his passage they became rose quartz, then returned to what they had been. He stood staring at Nathan Stack, and for long moments the man was unaware of any other presence in the room.

  You have to go now, Snake said.

  Stack looked up, his eyes widened in horror, and through his mind fitted the unmistakable image of Satan, fanged mouth smiling, horns gleaming with scintillas of light as though seen through crosstar filters, rope tail with its spade-shaped appendage thrashing, cloven hoofs leaving burning imprints in the carpet, eyes as deep as pools of oil, the pitchfork, the satin-lined cape, the hairy legs of a goat, talons. He tried to scream but the sound dammed up in his throat.

  No, Snake said, that is not so. Come with me, and you will understand.

  There was a tone of sadness in the voice. As though Satan had been sorely wronged. Stack shook his head violently.

  There was no time for argument. The moment had come, and Dira could not hesitate. He gestured and Nathan Stack rose from the pneumatic chair, leaving behind something that looked like Nathan Stack asleep, and he walked to Dira and Snake took him by the hand and they passed through rose quartz and went away from there.

  Down and down Snake took him.

  The Mother was in pain. She had been sick for eons, but it had reached the point where Snake knew it would be terminal, and
the Mother knew it, too. But she would hide her child, she would intercede in her own behalf and hide him away deep in her bosom where no one, not even the mad one, could find him.

  Dira took Stack to Hell.

  It was a fine place.

  Warm and safe and far from the probing of mad ones.

  And the sickness raged on unchecked. Nations crumbled, the oceans boiled and then grew cold and filmed over with scorn, the air became thick with dust and killing vapors, flesh ran like oil, the skies grew dark, the sun blurred and became dull. The Earth moaned.

  The plants suffered and consumed themselves, beasts became crippled and went mad, trees burst into flame and from their ashes rose glass shapes that shattered in the wind. The Earth was dying; a long, slow, painful death.

  In the center of the Earth, in the fine place, Nathan Stack slept. Don’t leave me with strangers.

  Overhead, far away against the stars, the Deathbird circled and circled, waiting for the word.

  18

  When they reached the highest peak, Nathan Stack looked across through the terrible burning cold and the ferocious grittiness of the demon wind and saw the sanctuary of always, the cathedral of forever, the pillar of remembrance, the haven of perfection, the pyramid of blessings, the toyshop of creation, the vault of deliverance, the monument of longing, the receptacle of thoughts, the maze of wonder, the catafalque of despair, the podium of pronouncements and the kiln of last attempts.

  On a slope that rose to a star pinnacle, he saw the home of the one who dwelled here–lights flashing and flickering, lights that could be seen far off across the deserted face of the planet–and he began to suspect the name of the resident.

  Suddenly everything went red for Nathan Stack. As though a filter had been dropped over his eyes, the black sky, the flickering lights, the rocks that formed the great plateau on which they stood, even Snake became red, and with the color came pain. Terrible pain that burned through every channel of Stack’s body, as though his blood had been set afire. He screamed and fell to his knees, the pain crackling through his brain, following every nerve and blood vessel and ganglion and neural track. His skull flamed.

  Fight him, Snake said. Fight him!

  I can’t, screamed silently through Stack’s mind, the pain too great even to speak. Fire licked and leaped and he felt the delicate tissue of thought shriveling. He tried to focus his thoughts on ice. He clutched for salvation at ice, chunks of ice, mountains of ice, swimming icebergs of ice half-buried in frozen water, even as his soul smoked and smoldered. Ice! He thought of millions of particles of hail rushing, falling, thundering against the firestorm eating his mind, and there was a spit of steam, a flame that went out, a corner that grew cool…and he took his stand in that corner, thinking ice, thinking blocks and chunks and monuments of ice, edging them out to widen the circle of coolness and safety. Then the flames began to retreat, to slide back down the channels, and he sent ice after them, snuffing them, burying them in ice and chill waters that raced after the flames and drove them out.

  When he opened his eyes, he was still on his knees, but he could think again, and the red surfaces had become normal again.

  He will try again. You must be ready.

  “Tell me everything! I can’t go through this without knowing, I need help! Tell me, Snake, tell me now!”

  You can help yourself. You have the strength. I gave you the spark.

  …and the second derangement struck!

  The air turned shaverasse and he held dripping chunks of unclean rova in his jowls, the taste making him weak with nausea. His pods withered and drew up into his shell and as the bones cracked he howled with strings of pain that came so fast they were almost one. He tried to scuttle away, but his eyes magnified the shatter of light that beat against him. Facets of his eyes cracked and the juice began to bubble out. The pain was unbelievable.

  Fight him!

  Stack rolled onto his back, sending out cilia to touch the earth, and for an instant he realized he was seeing through the eyes of another creature, another form of life he could not even describe. But he was under an open sky and that produced fear; he was surrounded by air that had become deadly and that produced fear; he was going blind and that produced fear; he was…he was a man…fought back against the feeling of being some other thing…he was a man and he would not feel fear, he would stand.

  He rolled over, withdrew his cilia, and struggled to lower his pods. Broken bones grated and pain thundered through his body. He forced himself to ignore it, and finally the pods were down and he was breathing and he felt his head reeling…

  And when he opened his eyes he was Nathan Stack again.

  …and the third derangement struck:

  Hopelessness.

  Out of unending misery he came back to be Stack.

  …and the fourth derangement struck:

  Madness.

  Out of raging lunacy he fought his way to be Stack.

  …and the fifth derangement, and the sixth, and the seventh, and the plagues, and the whirlwinds, and the pools of evil, and the reduction in size and accompanying fall forever through submicroscopic hells, and the things that fed on him from inside, and the twentieth, and the fortieth, and the sound of his voice screaming for release, and the voice of Snake always beside him, whispering Fight him!

  Finally it stopped.

  Quickly, now.

  Snake took Stack by the hand and, half-dragging him, raced to the great palace of light and glass on the slope, shining brightly under the star pinnacle, and they passed under an arch of shining metal into the ascension hall. The portal sealed behind them.

  There were tremors in the walls. The inlaid floors of jewels began to rumble and tremble. Bits of high and faraway ceilings began to drop. Quaking, the palace gave one hideous shudder and collapsed around them.

  Now, Snake said. Now you will know everything!

  And everything forgot to fall. Frozen in midair, the wreckage of the palace hung suspended above them. Even the air ceased to swirl. Time stood still. The movement of the Earth was halted. Everything held utterly immobile as Nathan Stack was permitted to understand all.

  19

  MULTIPLE CHOICE

  (Counts for 1/2 your final grade.)

  1. God is:

  A. An invisible spirit with a long beard.

  B. A small dog dead in a hole.

  C. Everyman.

  D. The Wizard of Oz.

  2. Nietzsche wrote “God is dead.” By this did he mean:

  A. Life is pointless.

  B. Belief in supreme deities has waned.

  C. There never was a God to begin with.

  D. Thou art God.

  3. Ecology is another name for:

  A. Mother love.

  B. Enlightened self-interest.

  C. A good health salad with granola.

  D. God.

  4. Which of these phrases most typifies the profoundest love:

  A. Don’t leave me with strangers.

  B. I love you.

  C. God is love.

  D. Use the needle.

  5. Which of these powers do we usually associate with God:

  A. Power.

  B. Love.

  C. Humanity.

  D. Docility.

  20

  None of the above.

  Starlight shone in the eyes of the Deathbird and its passage through the night cast a shadow on the Moon.

  21

  Nathan Stack raised his hands and around them the air was still as the palace fell crashing. They were untouched. Now you know all there is to know, Snake said, sinking to one knee as though worshipping. There was no one there to worship but Nathan Stack.

  “Was he always mad?”

  From the first.

  “Then those who gave our world to him were
mad, and your race was mad to allow it.”

  Snake had no answer.

  “Perhaps it was supposed to be like this,” Stack said.

  He reached down and lifted Snake to his feet, and he touched the shadow creature’s sleek triangular head. “Friend,” he said.

  Snake’s race was incapable of tears. He said, I have waited longer than you can know for that word.

  “I’m sorry it comes at the end.”

  Perhaps it was supposed to be like this.

  Then there was a swirling of air, a scintillation in the ruined palace, and the owner of the mountain, the owner of the ruined Earth came to them in a burning bush.

  AGAIN, SNAKE? AGAIN YOU ANNOY ME?

  The time for toys is ended.

  NATHAN STACK YOU BRING TO STOP ME? I SAY WHEN THE TIME IS ENDED. I SAY, AS I’VE ALWAYS SAID.

  Then, to Nathan Stack:

  GO AWAY. FIND A PLACE TO HIDE UNTIL I COME FOR YOU.

  Stack ignored the burning bush. He waved his hand, and the cone of safety in which they stood vanished. “Let’s find him, first, then I know what to do.”

  The Deathbird sharpened its talons on the night wind and sailed down through emptiness toward the cinder of the Earth.

  22

  Nathan Stack had once contracted pneumonia. He had lain on the operating table as the surgeon made the small incision in the chest wall. Had he not been stubborn, had he not continued working around the clock while the pneumonic infection developed into empyema, he would never have had to go under the knife, even for an operation as safe as a thoracotomy. But he was a Stack, and so he lay on the operating table as the rubber tube was inserted into the chest cavity to drain off the pus in the pleural cavity, and he heard someone speak his name.

  NATHAN STACK.

  He heard it, from far off, across an Arctic vastness; heard it echoing over and over, down an endless corridor; as the knife sliced

  NATHAN STACK.

  He remembered Lilith, with hair the color of dark wine. He remembered taking hours to die beneath a rock slide as his hunting companions in the pack ripped apart the remains of the bear and ignored his grunted moans for help. He remembered the impact of the crossbow bolt as it ripped through his hauberk and split his chest and he died at Agincourt. He remembered the icy water of the Ohio as it closed over his head and the flatboat disappearing without his mates’ noticing his loss. He remembered the mustard gas that ate his lungs as he tried to crawl toward a farmhouse near Verdun. He remembered looking directly into the flash of the bomb and feeling the flesh of his face melt away. He remembered Snake coming to him in the board room and husking him like corn from his body. He remembered sleeping in the molten core of the Earth for a quarter of a million years.