Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (4 page)

 
          
“Isn’t
he gone?” she reminded him again. “Vanished into nowhere? You told me that.”

 
          
“He
vanished, and I’d hoped forever. He brought a whole army of evil spirits
against me, and when I defeated them they disappeared, and took Thome with
them.”

 
          
“How
can that happen?”

 
          
“It
seems to happen all the time. Ambrose Bierce made a study of disappearances,
and he disappeared himself, without leaving a trace. Men and women seem to pop
out of sight, before the eyes of witnesses. About a hundred years ago, a man
named David Lang disappeared in a
Tennessee
field while his wife and two friends
watched. These things happen.”

 
          
“Yes,
and those planes dropping out of sight in the Bermuda Triangle, and the crew of
the
Marie Celeste
,
”
added the countess, her voice
troubled. “
But Rowley Thome?”

           
“I’m fairly sure I saw him
downstairs in the lobby,” said Thunstone, “and I think he called me on the
telephone earlier today.”

           
“But nobody comes back from those
disappearances,” she argued.

 
          
“A
man in the
Carolina
mountains
, a man
named Sol Gentry, seemed to fade out of existence in sight of his home,” said
Thunstone. “Twenty years or so later, he was there again, at the very same
spot. He didn’t remember anything about being gone, but he was back.”

 
          
Her
face had gone pale. “Then—”

           
’'Thome seems to be here.
Sharon
. And he knows I’m here, and probably knows
that you’re here, too. He’s always wanted you for a victim, hasn’t he?”

 
          
“Why
does he want me? Why?”

 
          
Thunstone
reached a long arm to the side table. He took the brandy bottle and poured
drinks into two glasses and handed her one.

 
          
“Let
me speak to the point,
Sharon
,” he said. “You haven’t been wise about him all the time, but he’s paid
considerable intelligent attention to you. I’d diagnose the situation like
this; Thome is evil. He’s spent his life being
evil,
he’s brought a considerable talent to it. As for you, you’re a fundamentally
good, normal woman. He recognizes that. And evil wants to conquer good,
overthrow it.”

 
          
Her
glass trembled in her hand as she sipped. She said, “What you say sounds
fantastic, but I believe you. I always believe what you say.”

 
          
“Because
you know that I always mean what I say.” He finished his drink and rose. “Now,
you’re in Room 316, two doors away from me, but I can’t be here all the time.
Let me give you this protection.”

 
          
He
searched in his suitcase and brought out a piece of reddish brown twig, set on
both sides with half-dried elliptical leaflets. He gave it to her.

 
          
“That’s
row^an,” he told her.
“Mountain ash.
I want you to
hang it inside your door. It’s a protection against lots of evil things.”

 
          
“But
I have a charm already. John.” She, too, got up, put a hand inside her scarf,
and brought out a small golden cross on a golden chain. “Do you recognize this?
You gave it to me.
and
I always wear it. I never take
it off except to take a bath.”

 
          
“Use
the rowan, too,” he urged her. “Don't overlook any bets,
Sharon
. .
And now I’ll walk you to your door, look
into your room to see that everything’s all right, and come back here to do
some thinking,”

 
          
"‘Why
can’t I stay here with you for a while?”

 
          
Thunstone
smiled, and the smile brought out deep lines around his mouth.

 
          
“Because if you stay, it’ll be hard for me to think profitably.”

 
          
Her
own mouth pouted, for just a moment. “Well,” she said, “all right.”

 
          
They
walked out together. The countess put her key in the lock of Room 316.
Thunstone entered with her. He looked at the window, uncapped his pen, and drew
a cross on the off-white sill. He hung the branch of rowan above the door.

 
          
“I
sat down in your room,” she said. “Won’t you sit down in mine?”

 
          
“I
can’t, I told you I have thinking to do.”

 
          
They
came
close,
their arms went around each other. They
kissed. Never, said Thunstone to himself, had they kissed like that.

 
          
“You
didn’t seem to be away from me just then,” she chided him.

 
          
“I’d
dearly love to be with you, somewhere else than here,” he said, still holding
her against him.
“Somewhere else, where perils didn’t loom
up.”
He released her. “Now, go to bed early. In the morning, as soon as
you wake up, call me in Room 312. We can go down to breakfast together.”

 
          
“I
hope it will be a good breakfast,” she smiled, “and that you’re in a more
cheerful mood.”

 
          
“I’ll
try to be. Lock me out as I go, and keep your door locked.”

 
          
Out
in the hall, he gazed both ways along the corridor. He thought he saw shadows.
Just shadows.
He entered his room and locked himself in.

 
          
From
his briefcase he took a pad of lined yellow paper. He uncapped his pen and
began to make notes.

 
          
Thunstone
was slow, was careful with the notes he set down. He frowned over them.
Opposite one note, then opposite two others, he wrote question marks. He spent
hours at what he wrote, and at last read the jottings over to himself. They
might be a help.

 
          
He
stopped, got into bed and yawned. It had been a tiring day, on the plane, at
the various discussions, at the hints of strange peril. Swiftly he went to
sleep, and did not stir until the telephone rang beside him.

 
          
He
reached for it. “Hello,” he said.

 
          
“Did
I wake you up?” asked
Sharon
Monteseco’s voice.

 
          
“You
did, but I’m wide awake now. Let’s meet in the hall and go to breakfast,”

 
          
“As soon as I get on my clothes.”

 
          
“As
soon as I get on mine,” he said. When he hung up, he found himself smiling and
knew that the smile was a happy one. The sense of danger was there, for
himself
and for
Sharon
. Yet he would rather be with
Sharon
than anyone else on earth.

 
          
They
met in the corridor and sought the automatic elevator. As they went down,
Sharon
suddenly straightened and stared. “Who’s in
here with us?” she stammered.

 
          
“Nobody,”
said Thunstone.
“Just a shadow there in the comer.”

 
          
To
himself
he wondered what invisible thing might have
cast that shadow.

           
They walked together through the
lobby below and into the dining room and sat down at a table for two.

 
          
A
waiter came.
Sharon
asked for a soft-boiled egg, a toasted muffin, and a cup of tea.
Thunstone ordered scrambled eggs, country sausage, toast and coffee.
Sharon
smiled at him. “You always eat well,” she
said, “but you never get fat, all those big bones and muscles, but no extra
flesh.”

 
          
“Maybe
I worry it off,” he said.

 
          
Their
food came and they ate. Then they rose and Thunstone put down money for the bill
and a tip. “And now what?” asked
Sharon
.

 
          
“Today’s
program starts at
ten o’clock
,
in the Whitney Auditorium, wherever that may be. Chancellor Pollock will open
things with a brief address of welcome.
After that, a panel
discussion of the supernatural.
It’s chaired by Professor Lee Pitt, a
man I think you’ll like, and I’ll be a member of the panel.”

 
          
“I’ll
come and hear that,” vowed
Sharon
.

 
          
“We’ll
go there together, and I’ll see you to a seat close to the front, where I can
keep an eye on you. All right, after the panel’s heard from, a discussion
period,
questions and answers. Then at one-thirty in the
afternoon Reuben Manco discusses supernormal matters among American Indians.”

 
          
“Reuben
Manco?” she repeated.

 
          
“A
Cherokee chieftain and medicine man, graduate of
Dartmouth
, extremely wise. He’s a friend of mine.
Then, at half-past three, Father Mark Bundren on the prevalence of witchcraft
and diabolism here and there today. You’ll like him too, I think.
And at night, at
eight o’clock
, a theatrical presentation
at the Playmakers Theater.
Shakespeare, I believe, various creepy sequences from his plays.”

 
          
“Everything
sounds diverting.”

 
          
In
the lobby, Thunstone spoke to the bell captain, who told him that Whitney
Auditorium was on campus, just across the street in front of the
Inn
. They walked out and across, found a big
square building of tawny brick, with massive pillars in front. As they entered
the auditorium, Thunstone heard someone call him by name. In the aisle were
grouped Lee Pitt, Shimada, Manco and Father Bundren.

 
          
Thunstone
led
Sharon
to join them and introduced them to her,
one after another. Shimada wore natty tweeds and smiled and bowed. Father
Bundren, in his clericals, greeted
Sharon
as ceremoniously as a Renaissance cardinal.
Pitt, too, was cordial. Manco, very dignified and deep-voiced, was the most
elaborately dressed of the
party,
He wore a long
hunting shirt of pale buckskin, fringed at sleeves and collar, with beadwork
designs. His head was bound at the temples with a leather band, also
beautifully beaded.

 
          
“We
have about ten minutes, and people are coming in fast,” said Pitt. “Where would
you like to sit, Countess?”

           
“Somewhere close to the front,” she
replied. “Mr. Thunstone wants to keep an eye on me.”

 
          
“Nor
do I blame him for that,” said Pitt. “How about here, right on the aisle. Is
that all right?”

 
          
She
smiled and took her seat, and Pitt led Thunstone and the others through a side
door and up four steps to the wings. From there they could see the stage.
Several tables were set there end to end, with chairs behind them and upon them
microphones and a pitcher of water and glasses.

 
          
Chancellor
Pollock came from behind a backstage curtain to join them. “The hall’s filling
up fast, gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s go out there and maybe we can start a
program on time for once.”

 
          
They
followed him onstage, and a brisk clapping of hands greeted them. Pitt took the
chair at the middle of the line of tables and motioned Shimada and Thunstone to
his right, Father Bundren and Manco to his left. Pollock waited for the
applause to die down,
then
moved to stand beside Pitt
and take up the microphone that stood on the table there.

 
          
He
spoke, and his amplified voice filled the auditorium. “Ladies and gentlemen mid
distinguished visitors,” he said, “I won’t make anything that you could call a
speech. I’ll say only, welcome to the American Folklore Survey Symposium. Your
printed programs will tell you about our sessions today and tomorrow. And now,
permit me to turn this present meeting over to Professor Lee Pitt, and I’ll
come
sit among you and listen.”

 
          
Thunstone
looked at
Sharon
. She sat no more than thirty feet from him.
Her eyes were on him. She smiled her closelipped smile.

 
          
Pitt
took back the microphone and spoke in turn. “We have here a distinguished group
of authorities on the subjects of folklore and legendry,” he said. “Like
Chancellor Pollock, I won’t make a long lecture here—I’m directed to lecture at
a later session. Let me introduce each of my companions in turn, and each will
say what he feels like saying. When all are through, we’ll welcome any
questions from the audience.”

 
          
He
turned and looked to his right. “First, I’ll recognize a deservedly eminent
educator from
Tokyo
University
, Professor Tashiro Shimada. I have long
profited by his writings, and whatever he has to say this morning will surely
be worth hearing.” He nodded. “Professor Shimada.”

 
          
Again applause.
Shimada acknowledged it with a toothy smile
and a brief bob of his head. His spectacles twinkled. Then he began, in his
precise English with only the trace of an accent:

 
          
“Ladies
and gentlemen, Professor Pitt embarrasses me with his flattery. It is true that
I am a professor myself, have studied Oriental folklore for many years, and
have contributed to the literature of the subject. I hope that I come to you,
not simply as
a Japanese
, but as a cosmopolitan. I
have studied in many Asiatic lands—in
China
,
India
, even the Arab countries. Everywhere, I
found strong beliefs in amazing things, and strong evidence to support those
beliefs.

           
As he went on with remarks on
ancient and modem Eastern religions and legends, Thunstone quartered the
thronged auditorium with his eyes. He looked at Sharon, who again smiled at
him. He found Grizel Fian, seated midway in the center section. She wore a dark
red dress that made her stand out in the crowd. In the seat behind her was the
figure of a burly man. Thunstone could see his bald head, like the head of . .
.

 
          
“Later,
I hope to go into more detail about beliefs in my native
Japan
,” Shimada finished, and made his slight
bow.

 
          
Pitt
spoke again: “Next to Professor Shimada sits Mr. John Thunstone. From what I’ve
been able to learn about him, he’s a man who does not like to bring attention
upon himself. Now and then, his activities have found their way into the
newspapers. He is greatly respected by several societies for psychical
research, though I don’t find that he belongs to any of them. May I present Mr.
Thunstone?”

 
          
Thunstone
drew the microphone close to him and stooped his massive head close. “Thank
you, Professor Pitt. I follow Professor Shimada’s scholarly remarks with some
diffidence. Yet I’m reminded of what was once written by a man of a very
ordinary name, John Smith. It was Captain Smith who kept
Jamestown
in
Virginia
from being a lost colony like the one on
Roanoke Island
in
Carolina
. A letter came from
London
, complaining that his reports did not agree
with those of scholars at home, and he wrote back that though he was no
scholar, he was yet past a schoolboy, risking his life to learn what he could
of a land of perilous mystery.”

 
          
Shimada
chuckled softly beside him.

 
          
“I
take further refuge with another favorite historical figure of mine, Lord
Byron,” Thunstone went on. “Once he said, ‘Truth is always strange—stranger than
fiction,’ and others have been echoing him ever since. That’s an important
truth about truth. Just now I’ll touch only briefly on things I’ve felt to be
the truth, and you’re welcome to believe them or not.” He smiled. “As though I
said I’d seen an unknown flying object or a fire-breathing dragon, or the ghost
of Napoleon Bonaparte. First of all, does anyone here know what a Shonokin is?”

 
          
As
he spoke, he shook his head wamingly at
Sharon
, and she did not hold up her hand. But one
hand did go up, a broad, heavy hand. It belonged to the burly man sitting
behind Grizel Fian,

 
          
“I’ll
tell you what a Shonokin is,” Thunstone continued. “Shonokins claim to be a
race that was here in
America
before the first Asiatics crossed the
Bering Strait
and became Indians. They look prosaically
human enough, except that the pupils of their eyes are slits instead of
circles, and their third fingers are longer than their middle fingers. Are any
Shonokins present?” He waited, looking at the audience again. One or two giggles
were audible, rather nervous giggles. “I sit here and say that I’ve been face
to face with Shonokins, have seen several of them die. And when a Shonokin
dies, all living Shonokins flee away in terror.”