The Satyr's Head: Tales of Terror (6 page)

Instead, I took myself off to the park for the afternoon, with a book to read and sat on a shady bench and dozed and browsed through a few short stories while the sun dried up the rain that had fallen earlier. It might have been an extremely pleasant afternoon, but I was not to be lucky…

I sat almost asleep when I heard a voice call through the bushes behind me: ‘Mister… Mister,’ it said, ‘want to play?’ I jerked round startled, and in an instant saw those same penetrating eyes peering at me in their frightening way, but this time I was going to remain calm. Ignoring the stare, I stood up, placing the book on the bench, and said, ‘Are you Sally Geddie?’ The eyes blinked, the bushes rustled as she moved about and nothing further was said for a short while. Those damnable eyes still remained however, searing my retinas in unholy steadfastness. Then:

‘Want to play?’ she giggled and leapt out of sight. Further off I heard her shout, ‘Hide-and-Seek!’

I decided to put my embarrassment of children aside and join in the game. After all, I had nothing better to do, and if she
was
the missing child—though this now seemed most unlikely—I stood a good chance of reuniting her with her parents. So, I took chase.

A large hollow, ringed with trees and thick bushes and containing a pool of stagnant water lay a few hundred yards distant, and it was towards this that I ran where I saw the telltale yellow dress flying.
When I reached the warm air under the trees she was nowhere in sight. I was quite hot and panted heavily while looking here and there in the undergrowth. Then a light, tinkling voice escaped from the greenery, ‘You can’t find me,’ it came in a sing-song manner, tempting, teasing. I moved towards where I thought it came from and there was a rustle of leaves and something yellow slid out of sight. I clawed my way through the thorny bushes but she was gone again.

I was now becoming very warm and a little excited. It was years since I’d done anything like this—yes, it was exciting playing hide-and-seek. All the mystery, the tingling terror of finding and being found, all this welled up from my childhood. I was breathing heavily.

‘Sally? Sally?’ I said lightly so as not to frighten her, ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice! I’m coming to find you!’ I passed a huge oak to see the give-away yellow drift past on the other side of the dell. I decided to break out from the trees and run right round the outside of the wooded hollow which would be quicker than negotiating the bushes and ferns, and, as I reached the other side, there came that soft, tormenting voice again, this time a quickly spoken, ‘Can’t-catch-me!’; then the giggling. I panted. Clearing the trees on the inside I came stumbling down the steep slope to stop by the foul, glistening water at the bottom of the hollow.

Above, the trees made a huge arc, allowing very little direct sunlight in to play on the stagnant water, where insects buzzed incessantly over the surface and strange bubbling sounds broke through from below. Aside from these odd bubblings the water was quite quiescent, black except where a growth of green plants had half covered the surface. It might have been fathoms deep for all one could see into its depths, but in fact it must have been a couple of feet at the most, the bottom probably thick with the mud and the leaf-mould of generations.

The trees down there were weirdly stunted and gnarled old things, infested with fungi, rather different than the tall oaks higher up the slope. The ground was a soft, wet carpet of leaf-mould. It was quiet too, no birds singing down
there, though if you listened hard enough, you could hear them chirping high up in the branches, in the light. I sat down on the bank and tossed a twig into the water. It splashed and a few ripples moved sluggishly outwards, then all was silent again. I was acutely aware of my laboured breathing: I had to regain my breath. I was sweating profusely, my brow like a wet and sticky fire causing black spots before my dizzy
eyes. I saw no sign of the yellow dress, but something caught my eye in the water. It was the broken-off limb of an oak and it rested, due to its curvature, partly in and partly out of the evil smelling pond. It was absolutely infested with fungus, pale brown pulpy things giving it a hideously soft mantle. Down towards the water the growth was torn and smashed and hung limply into the greasy water, as if someone had pulled, clawed at the rotten fibres in desperation.

I closed my eyes; the dream came back—the door made of fungoid material being ravaged by the girl, her face a mask of hatred… or was it horror? My mind drifted imperceptibly to other things: the heat. It was so damned warm down here amongst the trees, as if the sun’s heat of a thousand years had been captured by this murky pool, held in this great dome of oak and chestnut and pine and released in searing gasps when unwary visitors stepped beneath that forbidden place. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The black spots before my eyes remained. Lack of oxygen, I guessed.
Must regain my breath. The heat seemed to be burning my neck now like a fever.

‘Can’t find me,’ breathed a voice, so soft, so quiet now, but even so it startled me.

‘Sugar and spice,’ I said lazily, too tired to move at the moment, dazzled by visions recurring in my mind. ‘Boletus and Toadstool,’ I murmured idly.

Something screamed far off.

I looked down, down at the black, turgid waters of the pool, the water lapping at my shoes, leaving vile black detritus on them. My head ached. What was it..? Something was making the usually still waters move. My twig… no, that was minutes ago. Something moving… out there by the tree limb! A brown plastic sandal floated dismally near the edge, green scum licking at its sole.

‘She’s fallen in!’ I screamed, jumping to my feet, my head,
my eyes crushed even further by such sudden action. ‘Hey, Sally, hey… hey where are you?’ The water lapped gently, lapped thickly like obnoxious, noisesome protoplasm. Out there by the fungus-clothed log something yellow swirled in the water curiously. It was too much to bear. She had fallen in and drowned! But I’d been there all the time; there hadn’t been a splash. Only… only the faint,
timeless
scream far away.

A face surfaced by the limb, a final confrontation, the water sliding slimily off the pallid features. The face rolled, bloated, soft like the fungi, chin protruding, eyes choked up with green mud
.
I screamed, scrambling blindly up the steep bank, slipping, falling, making no way at all. It was all my fault. The face still stared, the mouth open, choked with pestiferous, clinging green weed
.
I found myself back where I began, by the water’s edge, tears streaming down my face. My hands were black with the luxuriant earth. I scrambled again and fell back, headlong into the pond. I crawled ashore, sodden, steam rising from my body.

I looked again across the water… there was
nothing.
I sobbed.

‘Can’t find me,’
said the voice,
‘Can’t catch me,
’ whispered the voice, spiraling into oblivion!

TWO ROCKING CHAIRS creaked slowly on the old porch. Adam’s chair creaked more slowly than Keziah’s, but Adam was the elder brother—by a good ten minutes. There was a noticeable bald patch in Adam’s foxy hair, whereas there were mere streaks of grey in his brother’s thatch. ‘Pepper n’ salt,’ giggled Kez when he thought about it. Kez enjoyed a joke, and would often giggle for as long as a week after a good one. Kez was the thrifty one: he liked things to last, even a joke.

The boards of the porch groaned in sympathy as the chairs swayed lazily backwards and forwards.

‘Been a thinkin’,’ said Kez.

Adam’s eyes opened,
then closed momentarily as he yawned. He settled his great hands behind his head and stared at a cloud as it leisurely crossed the bright sky. The cloud passed.

‘Uh-huh?’ said Adam.

‘Been thinkin’ ’bout things we should’ve been doin’,’ went on Kez. Kez was the active one. He had ideas, and would sometimes talk about them on and off for days as he rocked on the porch in summer, or by the stove in winter. Kez was the one who thought about getting things done. Adam was more easily satisfied.

‘The Lord provides,’ said Adam.

‘The Lord provides,’ echoed Kez, ‘But there’s still things need to be done. The shingle needs fixin’.’

Needed fixin’ these five years,’ agreed Adam.

‘I guess a hammer and a few nails would fix it,’ said Kez.

‘Sure would,’ said Adam. He rocked for a few minutes. ‘But the Lord will provide. Don’t you go aflyin’ in the face of the Lord. There’s a good spring o’ clear water out back, praise the Lord.’

‘Praise the Lord,’ responded Kez.

‘All we need is that good spring o’ clear water out back,’ said Adam. He crossed his hands over his belly and closed his eyes, as though exhausted by the conversation.

But Kez was in the mood for talk.

‘Worsen a dawg at the moon,’ grumbled Adam when his twin persisted.

‘There’s things,’ insisted Kez.

Adam watched a great bird making slow circles in the sky. Had something disturbed it? He pushed the problem to the back of his mind to
await a more auspicious moment for rumination.

‘Like Betsey,’ went on Kez. ‘I keep thinkin’ ’bout Betsey.’

‘I think ’bout Betsey, too, agreed Adam. A great sigh stirred his red, chest-length beard. ‘Sometimes I wonder if she thinks ’bout us.’

‘We oughta’ve buried her,’ said Kez.

‘Yep, we shoulda buried her,’ sighed Adam. ‘She’s been waitin’ fer it fer long enough.’

‘Her bein’ our sister,’ continued Kez. ‘A sister has a call on a body.’

‘S’funny,’ murmured Adam. ‘As the days go by, I don’t seem to notice Betsey so much.’

‘Must be nigh on two years.’

‘Ain’t much left on Betsey now, Hardly worth disturbin’ the ground for,’

The rocking continued. Adam watched the trees in the far distance shimmering in the heat haze. The Indian
Summer this year seemed to last and last, and there could be no better place than the old porch for soaking up what was left of the sun.

‘Pity we had to hit her with the axe.’

Wasn’t that just like Kez, gnawing at a topic that had no meat left on it. ‘She wouldn’t see reason,’ said Adam firmly, hoping to kill a conversation that threatened to go on and on.

‘Perhaps us hitting Herb Tindy with the axe first had sumpn’ to do with it,’ mused Kez,
‘’Specially with him lyin’ on top of her at the time.’

‘She wouldn’t see reason,’ repeated Adam. ‘Screamin’ an’ screamin’.
Botherin’ a body. Never could ’bide noise. Herb Tindy never said a word.’

‘Guess I took his head near off at the first chop,’ went on Kez. ‘Guess Betsey was
took bad at the blood.’

‘She never made
no fuss at hog-killin’.’

‘But she was never underneath a hog at the time. Guess we
ought’ve waited ’till Herb Tindy climbed offern her.’

‘He shoulda waited ’till the proper courting time. Not takin’ her on the best bed like he already owned it.’

For a while the brothers rocked in unison, remembering.

‘Anyway,’ said Adam at last, ‘she’s had that best bed ever since.’

Overhead in the silent air circled the great bird, watching for carrion.

‘Perhaps we shoulda buried her at the time,’ said Kez.

The way the man went on about burying. ‘Perhaps we shoulda eaten her,’ said Adam sharply. ‘The way we did Herb Tindy.’

‘The dawg sure appreciated
them bones,’ chuckled Kez appreciatively.

‘The Lord will provide,’ pronounced Adam.

‘The Lord will provide,’ came the response. ‘I guess Herb Tindy was what you’d call a sign ’cause, the Lord has gone on providin’ for us ever since.’

The peace of the afternoon was broken. Adam could see that Kez was set on talking, and there would be no dozing for anybody until he had talked himself to a stop.

‘Jus’ like he said,’ confirmed Adam, stretching his bear-like arms. ‘Jus’ you sit back, you brothers,’ says the Lord. ‘You done a good job in takin’ that couple in ’dultery, an’ to show my ’preciation I’m agoin’ to have fresh meat delivered to your door whenever you’re in need.  And the Lord has been as good as his word, Praise the Lord.’

‘Praise the Lord,’ cried Kez ‘The dawg sure appreciates them bones.’

The afternoon was still again. No breeze rustled the dried grass around the porch. An acute ear might have caught the sound of a dog scratching himself, or of the spring bubbling behind the shack. A sharp eye might have spied movement on the road a couple of miles below. But Adam sank his fifteen stone into his chair and plied the rockers.

Kez whistled soundlessly. He was still thinking. ‘Hope the Lord ain’t gettin’ absent-minded,’ he said at last. ‘Near a month since we had fresh meat.’

‘There’s always the good spring o’ cool, clear water. Cool clear spring water makes good drinkin.’

‘But kinda thin eatin’,’ mumbled Kez.

‘Don’t you go questioning the ways of the Lord.’ Adam was unusually sharp. ‘You don’t want Him withdrawin’ his appreciation now. The Lord provides. Remember the time when we was near starvin’ with nothin’ but a cup o’ berries between us. What did the Lord do? The Lord sent a Boy Scout aknockin’ at the door.’

‘Tender young shoat,’ murmured Kez.

‘And with a whole stock of canned beans in his pack.’

‘Mighty tasty beans,’
reminisced Kez.

‘And didn’t the lord send the whole campin’ o’ scouts around afterwards, askin’ after him?’

‘One by one,’ agreed Kez. ‘Kep’ us eatin’ the whole winter. Lucky we kep’ that barrel o’salt in the back.’

Adam suddenly raised his hand, commanding silence. On the road below the sun glinted on the windscreen of a car. The sound of its engine could just be beard labouring up the hill.

‘The lord sure is quick to answer,’ grinned Kez.

‘Fresh meat,’ said Adam. His eyes were suddenly sharp and alert. All traces of his recent sleepiness vanished.

‘Wonder if he’ll have any beans with him?’ mused Kez,

‘Don’t you go aquestioning the Lord’s provisioning arrangements,’ snapped Adam.

‘I ain’t aquestioning nothin’,’ protested Kez, ‘I was just athinkin’ how beans can be tasty.’

‘The Lord provides,’ intoned Adam.

‘The Lord provides,’ responded Kez.

The car could be heard rasping and choking along the dusty road. In it the driver cursed the map that had rated this second-class mule trail as a usable road. For over two thousand miles he
had run over mountain and through desert, avowedly trying to forget, but in fact damning divorce, damning alimony, damning community property laws, damning over-eager juniors anxious to edge a man from his hard-won place atop the ladder, damning doctors who could not reverse time at fifty, damning anything and everything in his path; hoping that the minor irritations of thirst, mosquitoes, and rough living might distract from the greater pain at the back of his mind; but having even that last hope dashed.

However he still had enough breath to swear at the white dust that stung his eyes, caked on his lips, and clogged his nose. His rich and varied oaths stirred a faint ghost of the sergeant (decorated in Korea) buried under the layers of fat accumulated while sitting around in executive suites. That sergeant would not be floored forever by the double defeat in bed and board-room. That sergeant would come back swinging. Even as he swore, he noticed the shack.

It was a crazily derelict heap of boards, held together more by habit than joinery. It could hardly have been a human habitation. Yet a solitary man stood hoeing a patch in front of the porch.

The car stopped. The man was intent on his work, and presumably had not heard. At any rate he paid no heed, but continued leisurely to ply his hoe. The shack was set back over a hundred yards from the road, and little more could be made of the worker except that he wore ragged denims, and his carroty hair glowed in the sunlight.

The driver rubbed the excess dust from his spectacles, and looked again. Still the man with the hoe disregarded him.

‘Hi, there!
Hi!’

The movement of the hoe slowed to a stop. There was a pause for a count of about forty, as though the red-head were deciding whether he had really heard anything: then he turned. Shading his eyes against the sun, he peered at the car. At last he ambled towards it. The driver waved as the ragged denims approached.

‘Howdy, Tindy,’ shouted the red-head.

‘Tindy?’
Something besides the greeting puzzled the driver. In
spite of the heat there was no sweat on the red-head’s face; in spite of his work no dust on the stubble. Perhaps out here they were so used to discomfort that it had no effect on them. The ex-sergeant was again reminded of what years of soft living had done to him.

‘Glad t’see y’again, Tindy,’
grinned the red-head.

‘I’m not Tindy,’ said the driver.

‘Not Tindy?’

‘My name isn’t Tindy,’ rasped the driver; then regretting his irritation, ‘it’s—er—it’s Driver.’

‘Driver, huh?’

‘Driver.’

‘I’m Keziah. Call me Kez.’

‘Can I get to Stotetown this way?’

‘I coulda took an oath as you was Herby Tindy.’

‘I’m trying to…’

‘O’ course, now I come to look at you, I can see you’re not.’

‘Tell me...’

‘You’re younger than Tindy. Better kept. Herb Tindy was kinda scrawny.’

Driver closed his eyes and grasped the steering wheel, clicking back the rising anger, not listening to the musing drawl.

‘You’re nicer rounded. Like to see a rounded man. A man oughta have plenty of flesh on his bones. Weren’t moren’ a mouthful on old Tindy.’

Even when Driver heard the words they seemed to have no meaning. The sound added up to no more than the buzzing of a lazy fly. ‘Flesh,’ the hayseed had seemed to say.
‘Mouthful.’

Driver turned to Kez, and was faced with a gleaming smileful of white teeth. The fool was friendly, and was entitled at least to a civil answer.

‘What did you say?’ asked Driver.

‘
You aiming to sell sumpn’?’ said Kez. ‘We ain’t got much to offer in return ’cept a few old roots.’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ replied Driver.

‘Beans, now,’ went on Kez. ‘I guess you ain’t got no canned beans in back there:’

‘No beans,’ confirmed Driver.

‘Beans make mighty tasty eatin’,’ said Kez. ‘But if you ain’t sellin’ anything, I guess you’ll be wanting sumpn’.’

‘I want…’

‘Aw!’ A bellow of laughter interrupted Driver, and Kez clapped his hands with sudden understanding. ‘Now I know what you want. You’ll be wantin’ a drink o’ cool, clear, water.’

‘No.’

‘Our cool, clear, spring water makes mighty good drinkin’.’

‘All I want is direction. Does this godawful apology for a road take me to Stotetown?’

‘Sure. Sure. The only place it will take you to. Thought youda known that, drivin’ this way.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Ten miles or more on, and it’s a mighty dusty track. Sure you wouldn’t care for that drink o’ water. Comes bubblin’ up freshn’ cold. O’course I ain’t pushin’ it on you, neighbour; but I guess it’s kinda neighbourly to offer— specially to a body as parched-up as you look. It’s free to us—it’s free to you, neighbour. The Lord provides.’

The thought of water sparked Driver’s imagination.
Cold water frosting a glass. Water trickling down a parched throat. Water that might even sluice away regrets, bad dreams, and soured ambitions even as it washed away the sweat and dust. For a second he thought he glimpsed something for which he had been searching. It couldn’t really be as simple as a drink on a scorching day, and yet…

‘Thanks,’ he said, and slid from the car.