Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (12 page)

           
“Then shall we go in and have
dinner?” invited Ruth Pitt. “It’s simple, but we hope you’ll like it.”

           
They went together into the rear
room, where a round dining table was set. They stood at their chairs while Pitt
said a brief grace. Then they sat down, all but Ruth Pitt, who went away and
fetched back a darkly glazed tureen and then a silver dish with sliced bread,

 
          
“Garlic
bread,” she said, “to go with the minestrone.” Pitt served everyone with big
pottery bowls of the minestrone. It was strongly made, with brown,
nutty-looking garbanzos and smaller, whiter beans, and lacings of green spinach
and chips of carrot, cabbage and onion. Thunstone tasted his and found it
excellent. There was also a salad of lettuce, sliced cucumber and tomatoes.
Everyone ate and talked. Pitt’s two sons joined in the conversation. To Sharon’s
questions, young Sam said that he hoped to study law someday, though just then
he was absorbed in wrestling with his high school team. Dennis, it seemed,
wanted to be a writer, perhaps a writer like Ernest Hemingway. Sharon asked
Ruth Pitt for the recipe for her minestrone, and got a pen and a crumpled
envelope out of her purse to jot down what Ruth Pitt told her. The adults had
small goblets of white wine, the two
boys
glasses of
milk.

           
Ruth Pitt brought in a dessert of
lemon menngue pie, over which
Sharon
exclaimed with happy praise. When the
dinner was over, Pin led his guests back to the living room.

 
          
“Lee,”
said his wife, “I don’t see how I can be going to that show tonight, Dennis
needs me to help with some difficult homework.”

 
          
“Homework?”
said Pin after her, “What kind?”

 
          
"Trigonometry.”

 
          
“Sooner
you than me, I was always in trouble with mathematics.”

 
          
Ruth
Pin left the sitting room. Pin motioned Sharon and Thunstone to chairs and took
one himself.

 
          
"To
tell you the facts, Ruth doesn’t like Grizel Fian,” he said. ""She
won’t say so.
but
I gather that she thinks that if
Madame Grizel moved to some other town, it w^ould be no great loss to Buford
society, But before we three go over, let’s look at tomorrow’s program,”

 
          
“Professor
Shimada is to speak,” reminded Thunstone.

 
          
“Yes.
if
w*e can find him,” nodded Pin. “I haven’t seen him
all day today. He’s due to appear in the afternoon. In the morning, I’m doomed
to discuss the jagged subject of the supernatural as an influence on American
life and literature.
and
I don’t know' who’ll want to
hear me.
Then Shimada in the afternoon, if he can be
cornered, Later, some seminars, chaired by visiting folklore professors.
And after dinner at night, Mr. Thunstone, you’ll wind up everything with
whatever you have to say. You’ll be the hero, so to speak.”

 
          
"‘Ralph
Waldo Emerson said that a hero is no braver than an ordinary man but he is
brave for five minutes longer,” said Thunstone, and Pitt chuckled.

 
          
“Emerson
was brave for five minutes longer, over and over in his life,” he said, “but
you’ll be a hero for more than five minutes when you get up to speak. Now, is
there anything else to puzzle us?”

 
          
“Do
you know a student named Exum Layton?” Thunstone asked,

 
          
“I’ve
known him fairly well for about six years,” replied Pitt. “He’s a native of
this town, an orphan with money of his own, and he keeps taking this course or
that without getting quite enough of the right hours to graduate. He’s
intelligent, but he’s erratic. This semester he’s been in my folklore class,
and he answers fairly difficult questions and asks fairly puzzling ones.
Brings odd books along to quote from—Albertus Magnus, Eliphas Levi,
even Aleister Crowley.
What about Exum Layton?”

 
          
“I’d
better tell you what about him,” said Thunstone. “Tell you in confidence.”

 
          
“In
confidence,” nodded Pitt.
“Very well, in confidence.”

 
          
“This
afternoon I met him in town,” Thunstone said. “I asked him where Grizel Fian
lived, and he told me, but the question upset him. Later he came to my room and
told me about sorcery and diabolism in town and on the campus, and swore that
Grizel Fian was more or less out for my blood.”

 
          
“He
said that?” said Pitt, scowling. “How does he know such things?”

 
          
“He
said that he’d been an active member in the covens here, and that he wanted to
get out. I turned him over to Father Bundren.”

 
          
“That
was the right thing to do with him, I think,” said Pitt soberly. “But getting
back to Grizel Fian, just why should she be out for your blood? And how does
she hope to get it?”

 
          
“She
has brought in some interesting help for that.” Thunstone decided not to name
Rowley Thome, confidence or no confidence. “I’ll try to handle that aspect of
the case myself.”

 
          
“And
be brave about it for five minutes longer,” Pitt added. “Countess, these things
seem to worry you. You take them very much to heart, I think.”

           
“I’ve told the Countess she should
never have come to Buford,” said Thunstone.

 
          
Pitt
crinkled his three-cornered eyes. “Perhaps she felt it was right for her to
come,” he said. “Now, I don’t suppose that we should carry these reports to any
university authority. But if Grizel Fian has help on her side, you have allies
like Reuben Manco and Father Bundren and, if we can locate him, Professor
Shimada.”

 
          
They
talked for a while longer, on various subjects. At last Pitt looked at the
watch on his wrist.

 
          
“The
show starts at eight o’clock sharp,” he said, “and let’s get there early and
find good seats.”

           
The Playmakers Theater, near the lot
where Pitt parked his car, was small compared to most buildings Thunstone had
seen on the campus. It was a flat-roofed cube of ancient brick with gray stone
facings,
The entry was a low porch with pillars. Pitt said
that once it had been a library, before Buford State University grew big and
needed a larger library than that.

 
          
They
got out of the car. Overhead, a round moon blazed above dark treetops. Sharon
gazed toward a shadowed stretch on the far side of the theater. “What’s over
there?” she asked.

 
          
“The
old town cemetery,” Pitt told her. “There’s a newer, bigger one on the edge of
town, but there’s where old Bufordians are buried.”

 
          
“I’ve
been told that Grizel Fian lives on the far side of it,” remarked Thunstone.

 
          
“She
does indeed,” said Pitt. “Her house is alone there, and it’s a big, handsome
house. If you walk through the cemetery, you’ll come right to its back door.
I’ve never been inside.”

 
          
A
massive, metal-braced door stood open and they went in. Inside stood a girl in
a black robe that clung to her curves, with a pointed hood drawn well down over
her hair and eyes. To Thunstone she looked like the girl who had sharply
questioned Father Bundren. Perhaps she was that girl. She addressed Pitt as
“Professor” and handed out program sheets.

           
They went past her and into the rear
of an auditorium with row upon row of red-cushioned seats, an aisle at the
center. At the far end hung a dark red curtain with what must be the emblem of
Buford State University. Sharon, Pitt and Thunstone sat down at the end of a
row of seats.

 
          
Across
from them sat Father Bundren, and next to him Reuben Manco. They smiled in
recognition, and Father Bundren rose and leaned to speak to Thunstone.

 
          
“That
young man you and I know,” he said, “we had some interesting talk. I hope it
was profitable.”

 
          
“Good,”
said Thunstone. Plainly Exum Layton was not to be mentioned by name. “Is he
here tonight?”

 
          
“I
advised him to miss the show, and ordered him in a good dinner and said I’d see
him later.”

 
          
Then
Layton remained in Father Bundren’s room at the Inn, and surely that place
would be well protected against evil. Father Bundren sat down again, and
Thunstone studied his program. It was a single photocopied sheet:

 
          
The Buford Players
 
present

 
          
NIGHT SIDES OF SHAKESPEARE
 
From
THE SECOND
PART OF KING HENRY VI:
 
Act I, Scene 4

 
          
From HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK: Act
I,
 
Scenes 1, 4, 5

 
          
From MACBETH: Act I, Scenes 1, 4, 5
 
Produced and Directed by
 
GRIZEL FIAN

 
          
There
were no casts of characters, or names of the actors portraying them.

 
          
Thunstone
tilted his sword cane between his knees and looked at his watch. It was exactly
eight o’clock. Even as he noted the time, three thudding taps sounded from
beyond the curtain. Talk died down. The houselights dimmed and a

 
          
row
of footlights came up. A young man of medium height
walked into view before the curtain, folded in the sort of black cloak that is
associated with Count Dracula in various plays and films. He spoke in a
resonant baritone voice:

 
          
“True,
I talk of dreams,

           
Which are the children of an idle
brain,

           
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;

           
Which is as thin
of substance as the air,

           
And more
inconstant than the wind.”

           
Abruptly he fell silent and headed
off to the wings.

 
          
“From
Romeo and Juliet
, ”
whispered Thunstone.

 
          
“Mercutio
speaking,” said Pitt.

 
          
The
curtain rose rumblingly toward the top of the arch. Music stole from somewhere
out of sight, a stealthy music, slow and minor. The light was soft and blue,
upon a stage set here and there with flowered shrubs. Upstage rose a wall
painted to resemble masonry, with an indented parapet at the top.

 
          
A
dozen girls danced into view, to the rhythm of the music. All of them were
finely proportioned, with very few clothes. Their rounded arms and legs were
bare; the upper slopes of their bosoms were visible. Their faces shone pale in
the dim light, like night-blooming flowers. Nimbly they danced and postured.
They began to sing, and Thunstone had heard the words earlier that day:

 
          
Cummer,
go ye before, cummer, go ye;

           
Gif ye not go before, cummer, let me
. . .

 
          
That ancient witch song, dating back to the time of Shakespeare and
Elizabeth, perhaps before that.
This dance and chorus of witches had
never been mentioned in the play. Was this an actual ceremony? Who had said
once, that if you witnessed such a ritual and did not protest, you yourself
were a partaker in it? Thunstone shook his head to banish the thought.

 
          
Gif
ye not go before, cummer, let me . . .

 
          
They
broke off the song and fled offstage to the right, and for a moment left the
stage empty behind them. The lights blinked off and then on again for a moment,
and others entered at left.

 
          
First
came stalking a huge, heavy-set man in the black cassock and white bands of a
medieval priest. He must have been four inches over six feet, and was massively
built even for that height. He beckoned with a mighty hand to bring others into
view after him—a much smaller man also robed as a priest, then a buxom woman in
the loose-folded dark gown and steeple hat of the traditional witch—Margery
Jourdain, of course. Behind her came Bolingbroke, caped in star-spattered black
with a snug black cap. The huge priest spoke in gruff tones, identifying
himself as Hume:

 
          
“Come,
my masters,” he rumbled. “The duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your
performance.”

 
          
“Master
Hume,” said Bolingbroke, “we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold
and hear our exorcisms?”

 
          
“Aye,”
replied Hume, “what else? Fear not her courage.” Bolingbroke directed Hume to
mount the parapet and join the Duchess of Gloucester there. Hume flung back his
cowl, showing a massive face with a tufty brown beard, and made a quick exit.
Bolingbroke then ordered Margery Jourdain to “grovel on the earth” and told the
other priest, Southwell, to read. Southwell produced a roll of parchment, spread
it out, and began to mutter. Meanwhile, on the parapet above appeared the
Duchess, instantly recognizable as Grizel Fian. She wore a splendid dress that
gleamed like spun silver, so far down off her shoulders as to reveal a generous
part of her bosom with the shadowed valley at its center. Hume joined her,
towering a head above her, but by no means detracting from the attention she
skillfully focused upon herself.

 
          
She
spoke clearly: “Well said, my masters, and welcome all. To this gear the sooner
the better.”

 
          
And
Bolingbroke:

 
          
“Deep
night, dark night, the silent of the night,

 
          
The
time of night when Troy was set on fire;

           
The time when screech-owls cry, and
ban-dogs howl, And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves,
That
time best fits the work we have in hand.”

           
The priest called Southwark peered
at his parchment.
“Conjuro te
, ”
he began, and then some indistinct words, while
Bolingbroke rummaged in a pouch and cast a handful of powder upon the stage at
his feet. Thunder rolled loudly, the lights blinked and blinked for flashes of
lightning. A pallid blaze sprang up from the powder; a spotlight stabbed its
beam down to reveal a figure there.

 
          
“Rowley
Thome,” whispered Thunstone, and that was who it was, recognizable for all in a
cowl-like headdress and a sort of tunic that seemed made of black bearskin. The
fire died down and glimmered around his feet as he rose erect.
“Adsum
,
”
he pronounced.

 
          
Still
sprawled on the boards, Margery Jourdain bade him answer questions: “For till
thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence.”

 
          
Thome’s
deep voice agreed: “Ask what thou wilt.”

 
          
Bolingbroke
then put the questions, and Thome as the spirit made answers, while Southwark
scribbled. King Henry? Henry would die.
The Duke of Suffolk?
By water would he
die.
The Duke of
Somerset?
Let him shun castles.
At last: “Have done,
for more I hardly can endure.”

 
          
Bolingbroke
again: “Doomed to darkness and the burning lake, false fiend, avoid!”

           
Again a deafening roll as of
thunder, a glare of lightning, and Thorne vanished before their eyes. The
curtain fell and the house lights came up. Thunstone and Sharon and Pitt looked
at each other.

 
          
“They
cut that scene short, before York and Buckingham could show up and arrest
everybody,” remarked Pitt.

 
          
“Because
they want to give us the witch dance and the spirit
raising
,
but no reprisals,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“What
did you think of the performance?”

 
          
“Fairly
impressive,” said Thunstone. “That prophesying spirit was Rowley Thome.”

 
          
Pitt
blinked his eyes. “He’s here?”

 
          
“I
spoke to him on the campus earlier today.”

 
          
“What’s
he doing here?”

 
          
“I
intend to find out.”

 
          
Bumping,
rolling noises behind the curtain showed that scenery was being shifted. The
row of lights gleamed, and the young man in the cape walked on behind them. All
hushed to hear him as he recited:

 
          
“ ’Tis
now the very witching time of night,

           
When churchyards yawn and hell
itself breathes out

           
Contagion to this
world.”

           
Again he made a swift exit.

 
          
“But
we had that speech, just now,” said Sharon.

 
          
“No,
this is from Hamlet, with Hamlet saying it,” Thunstone said.

 
          
Up
went the curtain on a grim stretch of a fortress with a gloomy battlement
upstage.
Again blue light for a night scene, with a sky of
stars.
Francisco and Bernardo came on and spoke of the cold,
then
Horatio and Marcellus entered, in Elizabethan doublets
and hose and cloaks. As they spoke, the Ghost came silently into view. It wore
dull gray chain mail and a close-fitting helmet with the visor up.