(1995) The Oath (42 page)
The dragon.
I, my wife Abigail, her sister Lois who had married Benjamin Hyde, and Ben’s young son James, all stood in grim and dreadful silence there on the bank of the Hyde River under a stark, full moon. Ben was never one to tolerate dissension in the ranks, much less in the family, and so we were assembled there at his behest, or rather, his order, to be forever convinced of his power.
With only a few muttered incantations Ben was able to produce from the river a spirit the likes of which I had never seen, nor wish ever to see again. It was a drooling, slithering thing, much like an alligator but more like a lizard of that size, displaying an uncanny level of awareness and intelligence. We were terrified, of course, and would have fled for our very lives, save for Ben’s intervention. He commanded the beast to remain crouched by the river’s edge, and it obeyed even though its yellow eyes glowered at us like lamps and its bared teeth continued to gnash, ready, I suppose, to dismember its first victim if Ben would but say the word.
From an account written in 1892 by Carson Homestead and inserted as a supplement in the diary of his wife Abigail, Benjamin Hyde’s sister-in-law, on March 9, 1915
S
TEVE
TURNED
animal. He had no thoughts, no feelings, only the raging instinct for survival. He aimed the shotgun without a plan, and the blast exploded into the dragon’s chest at the base of the neck with fiery sparks, the shock rippling through the scales the length of its body with flashes of emerald and ruby. The creature lurched, its face wrinkling, as if in pain. Steve fired again. The blast ignited a violent splash of color on the flank just behind the foreleg. The clawed hand came up, palm out, and blocked the third shot, then the fourth as lead shot pelted the cave walls. Steve let out a cry of terror as the giant hand filled his vision and pummeled him into the rock wall. He struck his head against the stone and dropped to his knees, dazed.
Somehow, even as his head was spinning and his body teetering, he got off another shot that hit the dragon midway down its neck.
Suddenly the shotgun was gone. Steve was just realizing there was nothing in his hands when he saw the dragon, razor teeth bared in anger, hurl the gun across the cave where it clattered against the stone wall near the entrance and landed in the sand.
Steve slipped the
30.06
from his shoulder.
The dragon snatched it away and hurled it against the wall of the cave on the other side.
Now Steve was eye to eye with the monster and had only his sidearm. He chose not to move but remained as stone, on his knees in the sand. The dragon was looking down at him . . .
Steve could see anger, hatred in the glowing, golden eyes. This creature could think! And it seemed to be pondering what to do with him.
Steve shot a glance toward the entrance. The tail was still stationed there, ready to crush him if he tried it.
His eyes returned along the length of the dragon, from the tail to the face, recording for this last instant of his life the creature that would chew, dismember, kill, and eat him, in that order. The scales still shimmered, like light reflected off water, each one a living thing; silken wings, tightly folded, clung to the contour of the creature’s back like a second skin; the elongated neck, tightly curled in this small space, supported the head with rock-steady strength; above the golden eyes, two silvery horns swept backward from the crown of the head.
And now the dragon seemed to be smiling—no, leering—at him in mockery and derision.
In his mind he could see that half-eaten mouse back at the motel, its upper half gone. Now I’m the mouse, he thought. This is how it feels.
Still Steve did not move. Perhaps that was the only thing buying him the time, he thought.
Suddenly the dragon drew back its head, its horns scraping against the ceiling as it drew a long, hissing breath through its nostrils, expanding its rib cage. It swallowed. The neck and chest began to heave as if it might vomit.
Oh, God, no . . .
The creature looked toward the entrance and gave a quick, short puff out the side of its mouth. The fumes ignited into blue flame, a brief flash.
No . . . no! He cringed in terror.
The beast looked down at him, as if to see his reaction. Steve had tried not to react, but that was impossible. He was eye to eye with a most hideous death, an unimaginable horror.
The beast gave another puff, this one longer in duration, the flame larger. Then it took a deep breath, and a blast of blue-and-yellow-flame came straight out through its fangs and incisors, flashing and licking across the ceiling of the cave with the roar of a furnace. The creature drew another deep breath, and this time the golden eyes centered on Steve.
“No . . . NOOOOO!”
Instinctively Steve leapt, then rolled in the sand as the burning gases struck the cave wall and flared out sideways. He scrambled toward the tunnel. Another blast drove him back.
I’m being played with. I’m dead.
Now there was only darkness. The dragon was a vague shape, the glowing eyes suspended in the smoke, studying him. Then the powerful neck curled slightly to the side, and with a concentrated, prolonged flame, the dragon incinerated Steve’s rifle, blackening the barrel, charring the stock, exploding the rounds in the magazine like a string of cherry bombs while Steve dug into the sand, covering his head with his arms.
Black smoke billowed around him. Steve couldn’t breathe. He began to gag.
A blast of flame rolled at him from the right, lighting up the cave walls. He dodged it, leaping to the left. The dragon followed with a steady rotation of its head, keeping the flame inches behind him as he ran.
Then more flames, this time in front. Steve dug in, reversed direction, leapt and rolled in the sand trying to dodge the flames, but they caught his arm and set his sleeve on fire. He beat his arm against the sand to put out the flames, a searing pain flowing over his skin like molten lava. Screams were bursting from deep inside him and echoing off the cave walls like ghostly taunts, adding to his terror.
Flames roared right over his head. He hit the sand flat out. The heat was so intense he thought his body had ignited.
Then another wave of flame came from his right, flashing and rolling along the floor. Out of pure reflex, he rolled to his left and scrambled to his feet. He was blinded by the smoke. His lungs were burning.
The tunnel! It was open, not blocked! Like a frightened animal he tumbled inside, scrambling on hands and knees down the sandy floor, gasping for breath. The air was dusty and filthy, but there was no smoke, no burning vapors.
A hunted animal, Steve crawled and groped his way along the rock wall, hoping against hope for some crevice in which to hide, some place out of that thing’s reach. He kept crawling until he came to the end of the tunnel where rubble now almost filled the shaft above. Then he collapsed in pain and terror on the dusty stones. It was all over. The dragon had him.
But nothing happened.
Suddenly a faint beam of light cut through the haze and smoke. Steve looked up and saw light coming in through the partially blocked shaft. He tried to be still and think.
There was no sound other than that of his own wheezing. So far he was still alone at the bottom of the tunnel. He looked back in the direction of the main room. There was silence and cool air and dust. Was the thing gone?
He dared not believe it. Yet he could not hear it slithering down the tunnel toward him. Well, he couldn’t stay here, he thought. The only way out was back up the tunnel. If the dragon was going to kill him, it would kill him whether he stayed here or not.
Calling on his last reserves of strength, Steve crawled around the corner toward the tunnel, then sat leaning against the wall, breathing heavily and listening. There was silence and total darkness in the tunnel. Suddenly Steve realized he still had his flashlight on his belt. With shaking fingers he unclipped it and shined it up the tunnel. It was clear. Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl up it, too exhausted to walk.
The trip back up the tunnel seemed interminable, but at last he reached the main room. He flashed the light around. It was empty. The smoke was clearing, and he could see light filtering in to the entrance of the tunnel.
The dragon was gone!
Over against the cave wall, he saw his rifle, black and smoldering, the magazine blown open and the spent shells scattered about on the sand. He crawled over to the wall, then pulled himself to his feet, his legs rubbery, and stole quietly to the entrance. Nothing but fading, reddening daylight out there.
And air. Clear, crisp, breathable air.
He emerged from the cave filthy, scorched, stinking of smoke, and trembling like a leaf. Below him, the thin, struggling trees remained undisturbed. Saddlehorse Peak was awash in the warm light of the late-afternoon sun.
He sank to his knees on the sandy shelf in front of the cave entrance then flopped onto his back to breathe for a while, to recover, to think. He had to get going before it got dark, he knew. But right now he couldn’t move.
Oh God, just let me rest and be alive for a while. Just let me feel the cool earth under my back and see the sky overhead . . .
His hand fell on something small and metallic. He glanced over at it, then picked it up.
It was one of the dragon’s scales. All he had to do was hold it, and it mimicked the color and texture of his hand. Maybe one of his shots had broken it loose. It showed no damage, though, no dents or abrasions.
He rested his head in the sand and looked up at the sky, clear except for a few cirrus clouds.
Levi tried to warn me, he thought. This was a repeat of the last time, only Levi wasn’t here and I walked right into it. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
As hard as it was for him to accept, Steve realized that the creature could think. It knew what he was thinking; it knew him. He didn’t—he couldn’t—understand it, but he knew that the creature was aware of his own motivations.
But then, why did it let me go? he wondered. Why didn’t it eat me? What was all that flame-throwing for? Was it just showing off?
Steve’s rational mind began to kick in. He was weak, but he forced himself to get up and to walk away from the cave toward some bushes, where he collapsed again and began to rethink what had happened.
He realized now that he should have gotten a clue from the tracks in the sand. There was only one set and only one furrow left by the tail. The thing didn’t come here all the time. In fact, it had only been there once recently—once, just to trap him.
He should have known that. He should have seen it.
He sat there for several minutes replaying the whole scene, mentally kicking himself for being so stupid. I should have known . . . I should have anticipated . . . I should have . . . I should have . . . I should have . . .
CHARLIE WAS
gone, and everyone knew it. A story went around town about Charlie being the victim of a hit-and-run truck—Lester Collins came up with that one—and another one about Charlie hitting a moose but such stories were destined for an early death in Hyde River. No one said a word, at least not very loud, about what really had happened to Charlie Mack, but everyone knew.
They knew about Maggie too, and Vic, and by now they knew Cliff Benson by name and knew whose brother he was and what Steve the professor was after. Those from the old school, like Elmer McCoy and Joe Staggart, knew better than to talk openly about it, but they were still ready to give hushed, two- or three-word answers to the younger folks who dared to ask questions. The community was closing in tightly.
Crucifixes began to appear around town. Carl Ingfeldt’s wife never went anywhere without the old silver cross her mother had given her. Doug Ellis welded one together out of bits of sheet metal and copper wire and kept it around his neck even when he showered.
Carlotta and Rosie nailed a wooden cross to their front door but went one step further by tacking garlic cloves to it. Kyle Figgin had a brainstorm and fetched a bottle of holy water from West Fork, asking only a dollar a portion to cover his trouble and expense.
Those of purely secular minds invested in more firearms and ammunition. Even Paul the skeptic could feel something brewing and oiled up the locks on his doors and windows, something he hadn’t done as long as he’d lived in the town.
The people of Hyde River were afraid. Reverend Ron Woods could sense it clearly as they greeted him on the street or in the hardware store or even came by to help him nail shingles onto the church roof. They all wanted to talk, to see how he was, to talk about—well, about any old thing having nothing to do with what was really bothering them. He was happy enough to visit with them and reassure them, but since they had no questions, he couldn’t venture any answers, and of course, they could not talk about The Problem. Anything but that.
Levi knew the talk going around; he could feel the fear spreading through the town. He knew the closeness of the evil and the shortness of the time.
So he continued working, grinding and honing the edge of the old bulldozer backclaw tooth, heating it, hammering it, forming it into a broad-tipped, razor-sharp spearhead. “Out of the fire, a tool fit for the master’s hand. Ha! Just you watch. Any time now, might even be tonight, that cocky professor’s gonna come through my door, and this time he’s gonna be ready to listen. We gotta be ready by then, am I right?”
THE COWBELL
over the door to Charlie’s tavern jangled.
The moment Tracy Ellis stepped inside, she could tell the town’s center of socializing had become like a bunker under siege. There was some kind of meeting going on in the far corner, she’d walked into the middle of it, and now she was drawing icy stares from all the attendees. Andy Schuller and his pool-shooting buddies were part of that meeting, leaning against the far wall, the pool table and cues totally ignored. There was no clatter from the kitchen, for Bernie was out of his apron and seated with the others. Carl Ingfeldt was there, along with Paul Myers, and across the table from them sat the town’s two girlfriends-at-large, Carlotta and Rosie, smoking cigarettes and looking nervous. Tracy’s estranged husband, Doug, was there, along with his loyal sidekick Kyle Figgin, and right next to them were the old-timers Elmer McCoy and Joe Staggart. Seeing McCoy and Staggart, Tracy realized that this gathering had to be important. Those two usually stayed in a clique of their own.