Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (17 page)

 
          
Thunstone
sheathed his blade in the shank of the cane. He and Shimada turned from the
fallen giant and walked off among the graves. They came out upon the graveled
path that Thunstone had seen before, in silence. Finally:

 
          
“All
of us have wondered where you disappeared to,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“Have
you? So sorry if I caused you any concern. But I was extremely busy,
extremely.”

 
          
The
frogs and insects were singing again.

 
          
“Busy
with what?” Thunstone asked.

 
          
“With
Shinto,” said Shimada.
“With what it can say to illuminate
the seeker.”

 
          
They
walked together on the crunching gravel. Thunstone began to realize that his
night’s adventure had made him tired in muscles all through his big body. He
had thought himself in fine phsyical condition, but he had been through
strenuous adventures.

 
          
“See,”
said Shimada, his slender finger pointing.
“That tomb.
The tomb of Emdyke the long-ago mayor of the town, who as they say was friendly
with Buford’s witch ladies. But Shinto tells that he was more than just that.
He used witchcraft himself to gain possessions, to wield power to his profit.
He was what you Americans call a wrong guy.”

 
          
“I’m
not surprised to hear it,” said Thunstone, “but I’m surprised that you were out
here tonight.”

           
“Shinto again.
It helped with the knowledge that you came to Emdyke’s tomb and went inside,
and on to what you found beyond, at the home of Grizel Fian.”

 
          
Shimada
had come close to Thunstone as he spoke, and a tangy odor smote Thunstone’s
nostrils. “Cedar,” he said. “I smell cedar.”

 
          
“Yes,
cedars grow in this cemetery. I took the precaution of rubbing cedar needles on
my face and hands, of putting twigs in my pockets, for possible help.”

 
          
“The
Japanese do that?” asked Thunstone.

 
          
“No,
but I heard of it from Reuben Manco, as used among his Cherokee tribesmen. I
decided to be eclectic, to take any advantage.”

 
          
Thunstone
stood a moment to look at the Emdyke tomb. Again some huge flying thing flapped
wings above them. He wondered again how that Hume giant fared, if he still lay
where Shimada had so heavily thrown him. They walked on toward the campus.

 
          
“What
does Shinto say to the worshiper?” Thunstone asked.

 
          
“Oh,”
said Shimada. “Shinto says—Shinto has forever said that there is life and
knowledge in every moment of every existing thing.
Not only
in the animals and plants, but in everything.”

 
          
“I’ve
heard that much,” said Thunstone, swinging his cane.

 
          
“In
everything,” repeated Shimada, as though to emphasize the point.
“In rocks, from as big as a mountain to as small as a pebble.
In wells, in rivers, in oceans and in little ponds no larger
than pools.
In empty, deserted houses— very strongly in those—and in
tombs and in the bones of the dead, like the bones of Mayor Emdyke back there.
In all things, I say, everywhere, all the time,
all
times.”

 
          
Walking,
Shimada stared pensively up at the stars on the velvet cloak of the sky.

 
          
“Shinto
means the way of the gods, more or less,” he went on. “It must have always
meant that, all the way back to the first men in Japan, those men who chipped
stone for tools, who were finding out how to think and speak. As I said today
in the auditorium, the Japanese people are two hundred thousand years old or
more. I think that Shinto is as old as the Japanese. It is not a late
importation like, say, Buddhism, or, more recently, Methodism or
Congregationalism.”

 
          
As
he talked, they approached the low wall with its gap that marked the boundary
of the campus. Beyond rose the Playmakers Theater, where Grizel Fian had staged
her bits of Shakespearean witchcraft and ghostly visitation. The theater was
unlighted now, silent now. They passed through the gap in the wall.

 
          
“How
does Shinto come into these things you’ve been doing?” was Thunstone’s next
question.

 
          
“From
my first moments here, I sensed a strangeness of things at this place, as you
did,” said Shimada. “Sensed it as you did, as Reuben Manco and Father Bundren
did. But I myself am not a good enough Shintoist. I fear that I’ve become a
sophisticate, even an Occidentalism in some ways. And so I made inquiries here
and there, and on the campus I met a very, very good Shintoist indeed,”

 
          
“Who?”
asked
Thunstone.

 
          
“He
is a student here on some sort of international fellowship. His name is Oishi
Kyoki, and his Shintoism is by long inheritance. His father in Japan is a
distinguished scholar and mystic, has spent his life in the study and perfection
of Shinto, and he has taught his son very well. Oishi Kyoki listened to my
worried questions and agreed to help and went into communication.”

 
          
“What
communication?”

 
          
“At
first with trees, with stone walls,” said Shimada as they walked past the
theater. “Then he established a sensation of hearing Grizel Fian herself—what
strange books she
read,
what dishes she handled as she
ate. Those objects spoke to him, and he heard. It was a profound experience for
me to witness.”

 
          
“I
can imagine,” said Thunstone, who did imagine vividly. “What was your result?”

 
          
They
followed a concrete walk away from the theater toward the center of the campus.

 
          
“I
have said that I’m not as good at Shinto as Oishi is. I watched and listened.
Sometimes I could assist. And tonight we learned what Grizel Fian did, what you
did. We followed you almost to her house tonight. We heard how you embarrassed
those devil worshipers. We were in the cemetery and saw you face those three
men who hunted you, saw you about to be attacked. Then I waved Oishi away and
made bold to help. As of now, our side is very much ahead in the game.”

 
          
Thunstone
nodded agreement as they walked. “I’d like to meet your friend Oishi Kyoki,” he
said.

 
          
“Well,
perhaps later.
Perhaps tomorrow.”

 
          
It
was late. No traffic. No traffic moved on the street as they crossed and
entered the Inn. A couple of guests, a man and a woman, sat in stuffed chairs
and seemed to doze. The clerk at the desk read a book.

 
          
“You’ve
done amazing things, Professor,” said Thunstone. “More than I’ve done toward
solving an ugly thing.”

           
“But you ventured your safety, your
life,” Shimada said. “I only watched and waited.”

           
“You watched and waited, and you
knew what you were doing every moment,” insisted Thunstone. “Professor, I think
the Japanese will rule the world someday.”

           
Shimada’s teeth flashed in a smile.
“But of course,” he agreed smoothly.

 
          
The
elevator purred to a stop and the door slid open. They stepped in.

 
          
“Would
you come to my room and have a drink?”
Thunstone.

 
          
“I
would be honored.”

 
          
Thunstone
pressed the button for the third floor. The elevator took them up and they
emerged into the corridor.

 
          
“Let
me check here before we have that drink,” said Thunstone. “I promised that I
would.”

 
          
He
knocked at Sharon’s door, and listened. No movement inside. He knocked again.
“Sharon?” he called.
And no answer.

 
          
“Sharon!”
he cried, more loudly. He grabbed the doorknob and wrenched and rattled it.
Silence.
He turned to the watching Shimada.

 
          
“She’s
not there,” he said, and surged his shoulder against the door, It creaked, but
it did not give.

 
          
“Here,”
said Shimada, “shall we open it?”

 
          
In
his hand was a plastic credit card. Carefully he inserted it at the lock of the
door. He manipulated judiciously, a hand on the knob. Then he drew the door
open. The room was alight, and Thunstone went quickly in.

 
          
Sharon
was nowhere in that room. He saw that the door of the bathroom was
open,
and that just inside lay a blue silk robe. He hurried
to see, dropping his cane on the floor. She was not in the bathroom, either.
The window was open, perhaps a foot.

 
          
“She’s
gone,” he said to Shimada, coming back. He looked at the bureau. Upon it lay
her cross with its gold
chain,
and beside the cross
was the little silver bell he had given her.

 
          
“She’s
gone,” he said again, and he knew how stupid he sounded.

 
          
Shimada
stooped and picked up a folded paper from the carpet, “For you,” he said,
handing it to Thunstone.

           
On the outside was written in
pencil, in a bold, sweeping hand:

 
          
Please give this to my friend
 
JOHN THUNSTONE

           
Thunstone opened the paper. He took
one glance, and his brows locked into a scowl “Look,” he said to Shimada. “Look
at this.”

 
          
Shimada
came to his side. Together they read:

 
          
My
Dear Thunstone:

 
          
On
the outside of this letter I spoke of you as my friend; because now my old hope
for friendship with you seems about to bear rewarding fruit. This message comes
to you by telekinesis—a term beloved by the late great Professor Charles
Richet—movement of solid objects across distances. It is to inform you that I
hold a delectable hostage, someone you prize highly. If you hope to see her
again, you must come to mutually profitable terms with me. Needs must when the
devil drives, says the old proverb, and just now the devil is solidly in the
driver’s seat.

 
          
We
were ill-advised to try to kill you earlier tonight, and how glad I am that
things have turned out like this. Getting hold of your Countess was no great
problem, once I gave my attention to it and employed methods. I am able to see
great distances when I have a mind to, and to perform great feats. I came to
the street just opposite her window. When she laid aside the talismans you had
given her—had, indeed, laid aside everything—to take a bath, I had only to say
certain words and to beckon, and there she was outside with me, unclad and
utterly mystified. I put her into the car I had brought along, and now she is
safely sequestered, in small, comfortable quarters. Not, let me hasten to say,
with Grizel. No point in bringing police or others to search GrizePs home. I
have my own establishment, and you don’t know where it is.

 
          
So
now, to be abrupt, what are you going to do about it? Helpfully I suggest that
you be calm, be practical, that you come to a good agreement with me. I’ve
fought you in the past. Tonight, as I’ve confessed, I was in a mood to destroy
you, and I’ve admitted that that was spiteful. Never have I underestimated you,
and since like all living things I have complexities and contradictions, I’ve
never utterly disliked you.

 
          
So
here, my new friend and ally, is what I would say you must do. To begin with,
don’t talk tomorrow at that meeting. Make an
excuse,
you can come up with a good one. Meet instead with me, at a place I’ll choose.
It should take very little time for us to decide what to do in a mutually
rewarding relationship. One thing is to exert pressure to found and advance a
whole department of interesting studies and experiments here at this Buford
State University. Your influence would make this operation a success, and you
must exert that influence, impress the university authorities,
win
them. I couldn’t, but you can. But before that, dismiss
those other tiresome visitors
here, that
priest, that
Oriental, that Cherokee posturer. Let them go back to their own world, the
limited one that recognizes no more senses than five, no more dimensions than
three. But you stay here, help me, and receive back your enchanting Countess.

 
          
And if you say an angry no?
Well, then you’ll never see her
again. If we can’t have you, we’ll keep her instead. She might not be as great
a help as you, but she can be of some use, having known you so long and well,
having seen some of your methods. If you renounce her to us, we’ll take time
and trouble with her. Eventually, she will join us. She will come to despise
you for abandoning her. And she should be a great pleasure to associate with.
She is so beautiful.

 
          
Suppose
then, that I call you on the telephone at about sunrise, and hear what you have
to say to this, if anything.

 
          
With
great admiration and optimistic expectation, I am

 
          
Your future partner,
 
Rowley Thome

 
          
Thunstone
cursed aloud and almost tore the letter. Shimada took it from him.

 
          
“Now,”
said Shimada, “this is a time to be utterly rational.”

 
          
“Yes,
you’re right,” agreed Thunstone harshly. “Look, will you go and get Manco and
Father Bundren? Bring them to my room, Number 312.”

 
          
“At once.”

 
          
Shimada
was out of the room, swift as a lizard. Thunstone hurried to his own quarters,
dropped Thome’s letter on a chair, and went to his open suitcase. He pawed into
it to the bottom, where he had packed books. One of these he brought out, a
small volume in a gray paper cover that was worn and tattered. The title was in
heavy black letters:

 
          
JOHN GEORGE HOHMAN’S
 
POW-WOWS
 
or

LONG LOST FRIEND

A collection of
Mysterious and Invaluable Arts and Remedies Good for Man and Beast

 
          
He
opened to the first page, and read the preface he knew by heart:

 
          
Whoever
carries this book with him, is safe from all his enemies, visible or invisible;
and whoever has this book with him cannot die without the Holy Corpse of Jesus
Christ, nor drowned in any water, nor bum up in any fire, nor can any unjust
sentence be passed upon him.

 
          
So
help me.

 
          
He
turned more pages, searching for something he seemed to remember, when Shimada
came in again. Behind him were Reuben Manco and Father Bundren, and behind
Father Bundren entered Exum Layton, limp-mustached, pallid-faced.

 
          
“I’ve
brought our friend Layton along, he doesn’t care to stay anywhere by himself,”
said Father Bundren. “Now, what is this story that Professor Shimada has half
told us?”

           
“Read that,” said Thunstone,
pointing to the letter on the chair.

           
Manco picked it up, and Father
Bundren came to his side. Together they read it, in tense silence.

 
          
“Well,”
said Father Bundren at last, “this Rowley Thome seems confident, seems full of
pride, which we’re told goes before a fall. But what’s that you’re consulting?”

 
          
“A
book of Pennsylvania Dutch charms and spells.
The
Long Lost Friend
.
”

 
          
“Wait,”
Father Bundren said quickly. “Isn’t that a book of witch enchantments?”

 
          
“Not
that exactly, as I think,” Thunstone said. “John George Hohman came to
Pennsylvania early in the nineteenth century as an indentured servant. He
worked off his
indenture,
he became respected for
kindliness and help. His book recognizes evil influences, but mostly it’s about
how to ward those off. Between times, he tells you how to cure sick horses and
cattle, how to make molasses and beer and how to get rid of mice and rats.” He
looked fixedly at Father Bundren. “I want to use a charm that’s included here.
I hope you won’t object. I hope you’ll help me.”

 
          
“What
charm is that?” It was almost a concession. Thunstone turned more leaves of the
book. “Here it is,” he said, “page seventy-eight. It says, ‘To Compel a Thief
to Return Stolen Goods.’ ”

           
“You think it would work?” asked
Exum Layton, the first words he had spoken since he had come into the room.

           
“And why should it not work?” challenged
Shimada. “A thief—isn’t Rowley Thome a confessed thief, by what his letter
admits? And isn’t the Countess stolen goods? She is good. Read the charm out,
Mr. Thunstone.”

 
          
Thunstone
did so:

 
          
“Walk
out early in the morning before sunrise to a juniper tree, and bend it with the
left hand toward the rising sun—”

 
          
“Junipers
grow out there in the parking area,” broke in Manco. “I noticed them. And it’s
early, early morning now, sunrise is hours away. Excuse me, go on. ‘Toward the
rising sun,’ you said.”

 
          
Thunstone
read on:

 
          
“—while
you are saying, Juniper tree, I shall bend and squeeze thee, until the thief
has returned the stolen goods to the place from which he took them. Then you
must take a stone and put it on the bush, and under the bush and stone you must
place the skull of a malefactor.”

 
          
He
paused: “Here are three crosses marked on the page,” he said.

           
Father Bundren bent to look. “Those
must mean the signing of the cross three times. Thunstone, I take back my doubts
about the worth of this formula. But do you believe it?”

           
“Yes, I do,” said Thunstone
promptly. And here’s the end of it: ‘Yes you must be careful, in case the thief
returns the stolen goods, to unloose the bush and replace the stone where it
was before.’ See here, gentlemen, I’ve known this spell to work in
Pennsylvania. I witnessed it myself.”

 
          
“I
believe that spell, too,” spoke up Manco.

 
          
“If
we all truly believe, it will work,” pronounced Father Bundren. “Chief Manco,
lead us down to your juniper bush. And let’s bring along that
Long Lost Friend
book. We’ll follow it’s
directions to the word.”

 
          
“But
we need the skull of a malefactor,” reminded Thunstone.

 
          
“I
can bring that,” said Shimada. “You will be out behind the Inn, you say? Go on
down and wait for me there. I’ll find you.”

 
          
He
was gone at a swift, scurrying run. When the others came into the hall, he was
already out of sight.

 
          
They
hurried down two flights of stairs, out through the almost-deserted lobby and
out into the Inn’s parking area, among ranks of silent cars. Manco led the way,
and Layton diffidently brought up the rear.

 
          
“Does
anybody have a flashlight?” asked Manco, and Father Bundren handed him one.
Manco turned on the beam and went to where shrubbery grew at the pavement where
the parking area came to a border. He quested with the light among various
growth, and then said “
Wagh
. ”
He had come to a row of evergreen bushes.

 
          
“Here
we are,” he said, standing above a shaggy specimen about four feet high. In the
light of the torch it showed almost as tall as Manco’s chin. Its branches were
thickly grown in small needles, whorl after whorl of
them,
Thunstone recognized it as a juniper,

 
          
“We
need a stone to make it bend down,” he said.

 
          
“Here,”
said
Layton
. “I’ve found one that ought to do.”

 
          
He
had been questing here and there among the shrubbery. Now he came back with a
stone the size of a loaf of bread. In the light of the torch it showed smooth,
with blotches of gray and white.

 
          
“Thanks,”
said Thunstone, taking it to examine.

 
          
“Now
for that skull of a malefactor that Professor Shimada went to find,” said
Father Bundren. “We’ll have to wait for that.”

 
          
Manco
flicked off the light and handed it back to the priest. They stood silently
together and waited. Thunstone burned inside with thoughts of
Sharon
, with a deep agonized wonder of where she
might be, of what could be happening to her. Moments of time crawled past,
seemed to join into an eternity. At last, at a very last: