A Night in the Lonesome October (9 page)

    
"What of the vicar?"

    
"He just said that someone was lying, to cover the Devil's work, and he'd find out who."

    
I rolled in a dry patch of grass and removed a thorn with my teeth.

    
"So how far along are you?" she asked.

    
"Perhaps two-thirds of the way.
 
I've come to a bad area."

    
"They'll likely search around here first, then work their way outwards.
 
So you should still have some time."

    
"That's a comfort.
 
You going out tonight?"

    
"Probably."

    
"Tomorrow it dies.
 
No hard feelings, however things go."

    
"No."

    
"I found a big patch of catnip on my way to the river.
 
If we both get through this, I'll buy you a drink."

    
"Thanks."

    
She stretched.
 
I stretched and yawned.
 
We nodded to each other and went our ways.

    
Soon it begins.
 
Today is the day of the New Moon.
 
The power will rise till the night of its fullness, on the thirty-first, the combination which brings us together.
 
And with the rising we begin our work, that which draws us apart.
 
The days ahead will be interesting, as the openers and closers reveal themselves by their actions.
 
Last night may have represented a final act of cooperation.

    
Jack wanted to visit a cemetery for a few final ingredients.
 
He decided upon a distant, isolated one we had been to once before.
 
He went on horseback, bearing a spade and bull's-eye lantern, and I trotted along beside.

    
He tethered his horse amid some trees outside the graveyard, and we went in on foot.
 
It was, of course, a very dark night.
 
But with the aid of the lantern we quickly located an appropriately secluded plot of recent turning.
 
Jack set to work immediately, and I went about my watching.

    
It was a pleasantly mild evening for October, with a few bats flitting by, bright stars overhead.
 
I heard footsteps in the distance, but they were not headed in our direction and I saw no cause for alarm.
 
I patrolled our small area in an almost leisurely fashion.
 
After a time, something very large passed overhead, descending.
 
It did not land nearby, however, nor make any movement to approach us.
 
A bit later, something equally large passed, again, descending, though in a different area than the first, and, again, making no overtures toward us, and I remained alert but voiced no warning.
 
I heard horses on the trail a little after that, sounds of dismounting, more footsteps.
 
Later, a wagon creaked to a halt, and I heard its brake being set.
 
The sounds of a few whispered voices reached me then, from various distant areas.
 
I began to feel uncomfortable at all this activity.
 
I patrolled farther afield; and, listening closely, I began hearing the sounds of spades from many directions.

    
"I remember you," came a faintly familiar voice.
 
"You're a watchdog, like me, with big teeth."

    
It was the graveyard dog, making his rounds.

    
"'Evening," I said.
 
"Yes, I recall.
 
Seems to be a lot of activity all of a sudden."

    
"Too much," he replied.
 
"I'm not sure I care to give the alarm.
 
Might get mobbed.
 
After all, everybody here is dead, so who cares?
 
They won't complain.
 
The older I get the more conservative I feel.
 
I'm just not much into heavy action these days.
 
I do wish everybody'd fill up their holes neatly, though, afterwards.
 
Maybe you could pass the word along?"

    
"I don't know," I said.
 
"I don't know who all's out there.
 
It's not like a trade union, you know, with operating rules and policies.
 
We usually just get the work done as efficiently as possible and get the hell out."

    
"Well, it would be nice if you cleaned up after yourselves.
 
Less trouble for me."

    
"I'm afraid I can only speak for the master, but he's usually quite neat in these matters.
 
Maybe you'd better approach a few of the others yourself."

    
"I'm inclined to let it go by," he said.
 
"Too bad."

    
We strolled around a bit together then.
 
Later, a voice very like MacCab's called out from down the hill, "Damn! I need a left femur and this one ain't got one!"

    
"Left femur, you say?" came an ancient croaking voice from nearby, which could have been Owen's.
 
"I've one right here I ain't usin'.
 
Have you a liver, though?
 
That's my need."

    
"Easily done!" came the reply.
 
"Bide a moment.
 
There!
 
Trade?"

    
"You have it!
 
Catch!"

    
Something flashed through the air to rattle farther down the hill, followed by scurrying sounds.

    
"Fair enough!
 
Here's yer liver!"

    
There came a _splap_ from higher up and a muttered "Got it!"

    
"Hey!" came a lady's voice then, from off to the left.
 
"While you're about it, have you a skull?"

    
"Indeed I do!" said the second man.
 
"What'll you give?"

    
"What do you need?"

    
"Fingerbones!"

    
"Done!
 
I'll tie 'em together with a piece of twine!"

    
"Here's your skull!"

    
"Got it!
 
Yours'll be along shortly!"

    
"Has anyone the broken vertebrae of a hanged man?" came a deep masculine voice with a Hungarian accent, from somewhere far to the right.

    
There followed a minute's silence.
 
Then, "I've some mashed ones here!
 
Dunno how they got that way, though!"

    
"Perhaps they'll do.
 
Send them along, please!"

   
 
Something white and rattling flashed through the starlit air.

    
"Yes.
 
I can work with these.
 
What'll you have for them?"

    
"They're on the house!
 
I'm done!
 
'Night!"

    
There followed the sounds of rapidly retreating footfalls.

    
"See?" the old dog said.
 
"He didn't fill it in."

    
"I'm sorry."

    
"I'll be up kicking dirt all night."

    
"Afraid I can't help you.
 
I've got my own job to see to."

    
"Eyeballs, anyone?" came a call.

    
"Over here," said someone with a Russian accent.
 
"One of them, please."

    
"I'll have the other," came an aristocratic voice from the opposite direction.

    
"Either of you got a couple of floating ribs, or a pair of kidneys?"

    
"Down here, on the kidneys!" came a new voice.
 
"And I'm in need of a patella!"

    
"What's that?"

    
"Knee bone!"

    
"Oh?
 
No problem. . . ."

    
On the way out, we passed a white-bearded, frail-looking man, half-adoze, leaning on a spade near the gate.
 
Casual inspection would have had one believe him a sexton, out for a bit of night air, but his scent was that of the Great Detective, hardly drowsing.
 
Someone had obviously spoken too publicly.

    
Jack muffled himself and we slunk by, shadows amid shadows.

    
Thus was all our work quickly concluded to everyone's satisfaction, save for the tired hound.
 
Such times are rare, such times are fleeting, but always bright when caught, measured, hung, and later regarded in times of adversity, there in the kinder halls of memory, against the flapping of the flames.

    
Forgive me.
 
The New Moon, as they say, gives rise to reflection.
 
Time to make my rounds.
 
Then some more dragging.

    
First time out yesterday I got him farther through the muck, but he was still in it when I left him.
 
I was tired.
 
Jack was sequestered with his objects.
 
The police were about, searching the area.
 
The vicar was out, too, offering exhortations to the searchers.
 
Night came on, and later I made my way back to the muck, chasing off a few vermin and beginning the long haul once again.

    
I'd worked on and off for over an hour, allowing myself several panting breaks, when I realized I was no longer alone.
 
He was bigger than me even, and he moved with a silence I envied, some piece of the night cut loose and drifting against lesser blacknesses.
 
He seemed to know the moment I became aware of him, and he moved toward me with a long, effortless stride, one of the largest dogs I'd ever seen outside of Ireland.

    
Correction.
 
As he came on I realized he wasn't really a dog.
 
It was a great gray wolf that was bearing down on me.
 
I quickly reviewed my knowledge of the submissive postures these guys are into as I backed away from the corpse.

    
"You can have it," I said.
 
"It's all right with me.
 
It's not in the best of shape, though."

    
He loomed nearer.
 
Monstrous jaws, great feral eyes. . . .
 
Then he sat down.

    
"So this is where it is," he said.

    
"What?"

    
"The missing body.
 
Snuff, you are tampering with evidence."

    
"And you might say I'm tampering with something already tampered with.
 
Who are you?"

    
"Larry.
 
Talbot."

    
"Could've fooled me.
 
I thought you were, a great wolf. . . oh."

    
"That, too."

    
"_Were_, huh?
 
And you're shifted.
 
But this is the dark of the moon."

    
"So it is."

    
"Neat trick, that.
 
How'd you manage it?"

    
"I can do it whenever I choose, with certain botanical aids, and retain full rationality, save when the moon is full.
 
It's only involuntary then, with certain unfortunate accompaniments."

    
"So I understand.
 
Like, berserk."

    
"_Wulfsark_," he said.
 
"Yes."

    
"So why are you here?"

    
"I tracked you.
 
Ordinarily, this is my favorite time of month, without a trace of moon to disturb me.
 
But I forsook this to do some investigating.
 
Then it became necessary that I speak with you.
 
So I came looking.
 
What are you doing with the body, anyway?"

    
"I was trying to get it to the river, where I want to drop it in.
 
Someone had left it near our place, and I was afraid Jack would be suspected."