Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (2 page)

           
“How about the people who’ll attend
this meeting?” was Thunstone’s next question.

 
          
“I
can’t say how many.
Hundreds, anyway.
Some visiting folklore professors, some scholars who’ll hold
seminars.
And the students will want to come, and others.”

 
          
“And
others,” said Thunstone.

 
          
They
came to a shopping center where a sign said
buford city limits.
Past that, on either side of
Main Street
, stood big, impressive houses, lived in for
nobody could say how many years.
Then shops, then a bank and
another bank, people treading the sidewalk.
On the far side, a low wall
and the green lawns of a campus; gigantic trees, a statue of somebody in some
sort of uniform, and farther in, the lifted heads and shoulders of big Georgian
brick buildings. Pitt braked to a stop at a crossing of principal streets, waited
for the traffic light to change, and turned them to drive left past fraternity
houses with big Greek letters on them, and finally into a parking lot behind a
three-story sprawl of brick and stone. He nosed them into an empty space and
shut off his motor.

 
          
“This
is the
Inn
,” he said.
“Buford Inn.
Let’s go and get you squared off.”

 
          
They
got out and took Thunstone’s luggage out of the trunk. They walked along a sort
of colonnade to glass- fronted doors, then into a wide lobby. Guests sat and
talked on sofas and armchairs. Pitt led the way to the desk at one end of the
lobby and spoke to a plump, smiling girl.

 
          
“This
is Mr. John Thunstone, who’ll speak at our symposium,” he said. “A reservation
was made for him early in the week.”

 
          
“Yes,
Professor Pitt, we have the note here,” she said, and struck a bell on the
desk. A tall, coffee-brown man in a blue tunic with yellow trim came across the
floor and picked up Thunstone’s bags.

 
          
“We’re
glad to have you here, Mr. Thunstone,” said the girl. “Oh, and you have mail.”
She handed him two envelopes. “We hope you’ll be comfortable. If you want
anything, call here at the desk.”

 
          
“Thank
you,” he said.

 
          
“And
now, I have to get back to work,” Pitt said to Thunstone. “I feel like a
prediction—people at this symposium will want to hear what you say more than
what anyone else says.”

 
          
“Then
I’d better try to speak the truth,” said Thunstone, smiling.

 
          
“Everybody
should try to speak the truth.”

 
          
Pitt
went swiftly away. Thunstone followed the man with his luggage to an elevator.
They rode up two floors and emerged into a red-carpeted corridor. The man put a
key into the lock of a door that bore the number and let them in.

 
          
It
was a room with off-white walls and doors and an off- white ceiling. Next to
the window stood a broad bed, covered with a dark, patterned spread. Thunstone
looked into a bathroom with a tub and a shower. The dark man set the larger
suitcase on a rack and put the smaller one beside it.

 
          
“Will
that be all, sir?” he asked.

 
          
“Could
you find me some ice?”

 
          
“Right
away, there’s an ice machine down at the end of the hall.”

 
          
The
man went out. Thunstone took off his blazer and hung it in a closet. He
loosened his necktie and opened his suitcase on the rack. The dark man came
back in again, with a deep trayful of ice cubes. Thunstone thanked him, gave
him a dollar, and shut the door behind him.

 
          
He
looked at the watch on his wrist. It was a
quarter after four
.

 
          
From
his larger suitcase he brought out a squat, square bottle of brandy. Plastic
glasses stood on the bureau. He put a cube of ice in one, trickled brandy into
it, took a sip. Then he looked at his two letters.

           
One bore the return address of Judge
Keith Hilary Pursuivant, and was postmarked at
Richmond
. He opened it and read:

 
          
My
dear boy,

 
          
Even
stricken in years as I am, I wish I could come there and hear what golden text
you’ll preach from at your meeting. What will your hearers think? Nobody
believes anything these days, and everybody believes in something strange.

 
          
But
I’m caught up here, trying to write my new book about the influence of
supernatural beliefs on American culture. I tell practically everything except
for my own life
story,
w'hich is the sort of story
that shouldn’t be told.

 
          
When
you’re done with your duties there, why not come to visit? It’s April, the
mint’s sprouting in my patch. I’ll make you one of those juleps I learned the
secret of in
New
Orleans
, back when you were just a boy.

 
          
I
say again, I wish I could be there. At that sort of a meeting, who can say what
might break out and try to be direly effective?

 
          
On
which disquieting note, I close by saying

 
          
Yours, etc.,
 
KHP

 
          
Thunstone
mused, the letter in his hand.
His old friend Pursuivant,
still magnificent, still wise, still brilliantly scholarly in his eighties.
Pursuivant, Tenderer of priceless but unappreciated service
in both the w
⁷
orld wars.
Pursuivant, who
had given
him
that walking stick that hid the silver blade.
On
impulse, Thunstone picked up the stick, turned the crooked handle, and freed
the blade it held. Silver, that blade, gray ancient silver, said to have been
forged for the master smith Saint Dunstan, a long thousand years ago. He traced
the Latin letters still legible upon it:

 
          
Sic pereant omnes inimici tui, Domine.
So perish all thine enemies, O Lord. How useful that blade had been, now and
then in Thunstone’s past.

 
          
He
slid the blade back into its sheath, again sipped brandy, and took up the other
letter. No return address this time, but instantly he knew the writing of his
name and address upon it. This envelope, too, he opened.

 
          
Inside
a card with just a single sentence in a clear, sure feminine hand:

 
          
Sooner than you think!

 
          
Sharon

 
          
Of course.
She who had been Sharon Hill,
who held the title of the Countess of Monteseco.
From whom he had
actually fled, again and again, trying to keep her from involvement in his
perilous adventures. Thunstone frowned, but the frown was a tender one, a fond
one.

 
          
The
telephone rang, on the stand beside his chair. He picked it up. “Hello,” he
said.

 
          
“Thunstone?”
a deep bass voice came to him.

 
          
“Yes,”
he said, “Thunstone here.”

 
          
“It
is better not.”

 
          
A
click as the connection was broken.

 
          
Thunstone
put up his own instrument. Now his frown was neither tender nor fond.

 
          
What
voice had spoken to him? He knew it from somewhere, but whose was it?

           
Thunstone pondered the question and
could find no answer whatever. After a time, he stripped, went into the
bathroom and showered, soaping his muscular body from head to foot. Then he
shaved his square jaw, combed and parted his wet hair. He put on clean clothes,
with a white shirt and a blue necktie sprinkled with white squares. His dark
suit was conservative, but it had been skillfully cut by a good
London
tailor. Sitting down, he brought out a
briar pipe, filled and lighted it, and thought.

 
          
The
telephone rang again. He picked it up. “Hello.”

 
          
“Mr.
Thunstone?” said a man’s voice, quite unrecognizable this time.

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“This
is George Pollock. I’m the chancellor here at
Buford
State
. I hope to see you at dinner tonight.”

 
          
“Yes,
thank you, Chancellor. Professor Pitt spoke about that.”

 
          
“Shall
we say six-thirty, then? We’ll eat in the dining room at the
Inn
, and we can meet in the lobby. I’ll
recognize you, Mr.
Thunstone,
I’ve seen your picture
in the
New
York
papers. There’ll be some other interesting people along.”

 
          
“Will
Professor Pitt be there?”

 
          
“No,
Lee can’t come. He’ll be speaking tomorrow morning, and he’s still deciding
what to say. He’s earnest about such things.”

 
          
“Thank
you,” said Thunstone. “I’ll be in the lobby.”

           
They both hung up. Thunstone got a
flat envelope briefcase from his bag, and from that drew a printed program.
AMERICAN FOLKLORE SURVEY SYMPOSIUM,
Said
big black capital letters at the top. Below that, it showed the program for the
first day, tomorrow, Friday, at Whitney Auditorium. At
ten o’clock
in the morning, the chancellor would make
opening remarks. Then Lee Pitt would give an introductory speech and afterward
would preside over a panel including John Thunstone, Chief Reuben Manco,
Professor Tashiro Shimada and Father Mark Bundren, each of these dealing with
studies of the supernatural. At
1
p.m.
,
Manco would speak on myths and legends of
the American Indian.
Then, at
3:30
p.m.
,
Father Bundren on
Satanism.
At
8
p.m.
,
at the Playmakers Theater, would be
presented scenes from William Shakespeare that dealt with the classic
supernatural.

 
          
He
saw that on Saturday, the final day, he and the others would appear on a
morning panel with a question-and-an- swer period. At
one o’clock
, Pitt would speak on
America
’s literature of the supernatural. At
three o’clock
, Professor Shimada would discuss Oriental
beliefs and their influence on various national cultures,
Finally
,
at
eight
o’clock
in the
evening, he, Thunstone, was to deliver the final address of the program.

 
          
The
final address: he had better make it a good one. He looked at his watch. It was
a quarter past six. He went out to the elevator and down to the lobby.

 
          
Knots
of people stood and chatted here and there. One group looked up at Thunstone as
he came into view. One of them, dark and wiry, raised his hand in recognition.
Thunstone walked toward them.

 
          
A
gaunt, gray-haired man stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘I’m George
Pollock,” he said. “Glad to see you, and so are these others. Grizel, may I
present Mr. Thunstone. Ms. Grizel Fian, sir.”

 
          
She
stepped forward to face Thunstone. She was tall and proud to look at; she wore
a low-cut gown of soft blue material that clung to the splendid proportions of
her figure. Her rich brown hair was drawn back into a bun. She had a handsome,
ivory-pale face. Her red lips smiled as she looked at Thunstone with wide green
eyes and gave him a slim, jeweled hand.

 
          
“How
much I’ve looked forward to meeting you,” she purred.

 
          
“And
Chief Reuben Manco,” said Pollock,

 
          
“We
know each other,” said the wiry man who had singled Thunstone out. His
gray-black hair hung in two braids to bracket his brown, seamed face. “How are
you, Thunstone?” he asked, and they shook hands,

 
          
“This
is Father Mark Bundren,” went on Pollock,

 
          
The
priest wore clericals, dark suit and vest, with a round white collar. He was
tall, though not as tall as Thunstone, and rather stocky without being soft. He
had a short, straight nose, a good-humored mouth. His dark hair was closely
curled,

 
          
“How
do you do?” he said, giving Thunstone his hand, “I’ve heard about you, read
about you. I hope to profit by talking to you.”

 
          
“And
this is Professor Tashiro Shimada,”

 
          
Professor
Shimada was a shred of a man, smaller than Manco. His face was leathery tan,
with twinkling spectacles and a bristling gray mustache. His teeth gleamed
whitely in a smile.

 
          
“Now,
shall we go on into the dining room?” invited Pollock. “I’ve reserved a table
for us and ordered a dinner I hope you will all like, Here, follow me,” He led
them into the dining room, A white-jacketed waiter met them inside the door and
conducted them to a table in a comer, Pollock pointed them to seats, with
Grizel Fian at the head and himself and Thunstone at her right and left. Father
Bundren sat at the opposite end of the table, and Shimada and Manco took chairs
at either side of him.

           
The waiter brought steaming plates
of onion soup, each with a slice of toasted French bread floating on top and a
liberal sprinkling of grated Parmesan cheese. Thunstone tasted his. It was
excellent, and both Father Bundren and Shimada praised it aloud. Grizel Fian
ate hers with manifest appetite. Glancing up at Thunstone, she smiled warmly,
almost conspiratorially. They finished the soup, and Pollock spoke.

 
          
“The
subjects of folklore and legendry are universally interesting,” he said, as
though saying something new.
“In all countries and among all
cultures.”

 
          
“Fve
thought that for a number of years,” contributed Father Bundren. “More than
that, they’re also especially interesting to the classicist. Anyone who wants
to laugh at them must be prepared to laugh at every religious faith in the
world.”

 
          
“Amen,
if I may use a Christian locution when I worship the old Cherokee gods,” put in
Reuben Manco.

 
          
“Japanese
culture is built upon a tremendous fabric of immemorial folk belief, and I hope
to explain that here,” said Shimada in his turn. His English had only a trace
of accent.

 
          
“Father
Bundren mentioned laughter, and we may hear some of that on this occasion,”
resumed Pollock. “There have already been several facetious newspaper stories
here and there. Hundreds of people are coming, and not all of them with open
minds. I depend on you gentlemen, yes and on you Grizel, to be highly
impressive.”

 
          
“We’ll
try,” promised Manco, and, “We’ll try,” echoed Grizel Fian.

 
          
The
waiter had carried the soup plates away. Now he returned with other plates that
bore slices of roast beef, browned potatoes,
broccoli
.
He filled glasses with bright red wine, and set a wooden bowl of shredded
lettuce before Pollock.

           
“Will all of you start eating?”
Pollock said to them. “I’m going to mix this salad, and if you don’t like it,
I’ll cry.”

 
          
He
poured in olive oil from a cruet and stirred it judiciously with a wooden fork
and spoon.

 
          
“I
remember an ancient recipe for salad,” offered Father Bundren. “You need a
miser for the oil.”

 
          
“I
don’t think I was exactly miserly,” said Pollock, sprinkling salt and pepper
and stirring those in, too. “But your recipe
continues,
a spendthrift for the vinegar.”

 
          
He
sluiced on a liberal portion of red wine vinegar.

 
          
“And
a madman to stir it,” pronounced Father Bundren.

 
          
“Exactly,”
said Pollock and stirred vigorously, then served out portions in smaller wooden
bowls and handed them around. Grizel Fian tasted a forkful.

 
          
“You
needn’t cry on my account,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

 
          
Thunstone
took some in his turn. “Amen,” he said.

 
          
They
ate the beef and the vegetables and the salad, all with good appetites.
Meanwhile, they talked about the coming programs. Pollock asked if Father
Bundren had ever exorcised evil spirits.

 
          
“I’ve
done that from time to time,” said Father Bundren. “Some of my work lies among
people on the
Lower
East Side
in
New York
. They call on me for exorcisms, and I
perform them, and hope that they work.”

 
          
“Don’t
you know if they work?” asked Grizel Fian quickly.

 
          
“It’s
hard to be sure of anything in an enigmatic world,” was the priest’s reply.
“Yet there are certain phenomena— interesting, sometimes daunting. But I’ll
save those until I have to speak here.”

 
          
“There
has to be exorcism among the Cherokees,” said Manco, buttering a fragment of
roll. “We recognize evil and

 
          
its
spirits. We have the
anisgina
—malignant
spirits of
evil,
and among them the worst are the
Raven Mockers. If you happen to be sick or wounded, the Raven Mockers will come
to suck your blood and kill you.”

 
          
“Like
vampires in the
Old
World
,” suggested
Thunstone. “You can find vampires in the
New World
, too,” said Manco. “The
New World
is older, perhaps, than the Old. To drive
the Raven Mockers away from a victim will take all a skilled medicine man has
of prayer and method.”

           
“You sound as if you’ve had it to
do, Mr. Manco,” remarked Grizel Fian.

           
“Frequently,” Manco said, and no
more than that. Carefully he cut a morsel of beef.

 
          
Pollock
smiled. “Professor Shimada,” he said, “these Occidental pronouncements must
amuse a sophisticate of the
Far East
,
from immemorial
Japan
.”

 
          
Shimada
smiled in his turn. “Sophistications are relative,” he said gently, “and as for
being immemorial, we Japanese aren’t really that when we consider the long life
of man on earth. Probably the first settlers of
Japan
came from what is now
Korea
, something like two hundred thousand years
ago.” He smiled again. “Earlier by some ages than the first adventurers to
Australia
or
America
, no more than fifty thousand years ago, if
that.”