The wildside book of fan.., p.7
The Deathstone, page 7
Well, it was not going to happen to him. Not to his wife, his child; not to Ron himself. He descended the steps quickly.
“Honey, do you need the doll? There’ll be so much for you to see and do, you won’t...”
“I can’t go without the doll.”
“Honey...?” Ron said patiently.
Still Kristy hesitated. In that moment, that precise moment, Ron was starting to have serious doubts about the whole thing. It was true that his time was his own; he kept no scheduled hours but worked as he chose. It was also true, however, that he had been forced to work most of the time, leaving little time to spend with Kristy. But to suddenly take a four-week vacation at this time was, perhaps, a bit extreme.
Kristy now lay face down on the living room rug, her arms plunged under the sofa, her feet scrambling to push her still further. “I have her! She’s here!” Kristy squealed and pulled into view the lost doll.
“Well, good,” Ron said, and wondered how on earth such a matronly doll could become so indispensable to a little girl. Not a Barbie doll with an immense glamorous wardrobe or a baby doll, cuddly and cute, but this hard, plastic-bodied, stiff-wigged, china-faced doll which had become Kristy’s best friend and imaginary playmate. Sometimes they would even have loud vicious arguments, with Kristy doing both voices. Once Kristy had ordered “Jennifer” shut into the basement closet only to wake Ron up in the middle of the night: “Daddy, Jennifer’s scared. You have to get her. Jennifer’s afraid to stay down there.”
Casually, Kristy now picked herself up from the floor, Jennifer held upside down by one hard plastic leg, and threw the doll into the toy box. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Did you go to the bathroom?”
“I don’t have to go.”
“Go to the bathroom.” Ron picked up the toy box with one hand and the suitcase at the door with the other. “I want to be on the road in five minutes. Chandal?” he bellowed.
Chandal emerged from the bedroom, blue flight bag over her shoulder, purse dangling from her hand.
“What’s that?” Ron demanded suspiciously. “Is that another ditty bag? I told you only one damned ditty bag—that plastic bag that I packed an hour ago.”
“This is just more or less a purse,” she said descending the stairs.
“Then what’s that in your hand, for God’s sake?”
“It’s—ah, it fits into the flight bag. I’ve got everything in there—cards, peanut butter and crackers, pencils, crossword puzzles...”
“Did you go to the bathroom?” Ron interrupted.
“I don’t have to,” Chandal said cramming her purse into the center compartment of the flight bag. The zipper refused to budge.
“Go to the bathroom,” Ron ordered grimly. “I want to be on the road in five minutes.”
“But—”
“Hurry up, Mommy.” Kristy dashed from powder room to front door where she collected her red patent leather pocket book, crayons and two coloring books and disappeared into the car before Ron could mention that he had already packed crayons, magic markers, coloring books, artist’s pads and construction paper into the toy box.
Twenty minutes later, they were on the road, better time than Ron had expected to make. “Women,” he thought affectionately and noticed he had an ache in his lower back.
TWO
GETTING THERE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Father, the root of this little pink flower
Among the stones has the taste of blood.
And reptiles are everywhere.
Here’s one in My hand, Father, look;
And there is one on Your arm.
But do not run away, because...
TO THREE RACES AND TWELVE GENERATIONS, THROUGH ALL ITS many names, it has been known simply as the valley. It is blazingly hot by day, cool by night. In its abysmal depths whole mountains contract and expand. Everything changes shape constantly in its shifting light. And all these mutations of form, these permutations of substance, are suffused with infinite variations of color, color brought to life by its power. Never static, never still, it is inconstant as the passing moment, and yet durable as time. It is its people’s way into the nebulous past, into the apocalyptic future.
And who are these people who choose to live under an umbrella of stone? Farming men, mostly, generations of them, who walk two or three miles in the dark, after twelve hours’ toil in the fields. Some of these men cannot read or write. Some, if a stranger is present, can adopt a clever disguise of intelligence. Some cannot.
And some who can, will not. For there is a darker side to the people of the valley which cuts them off from the rest of the world. A nexus of superstition and hatred that has been passed down through the ages like a barbed-wired fence that stretches from here to the moon.
Progress has brought little change to the life in the valley. Farmhouses built hundreds of years ago, when walls were made from rough-cut pine and birch, now have modern windows and doors, a few fancy lighting fixtures and TV antennas on their roofs. Horses have been replaced by tractors and automobiles. Narrow roads have been widened a little, some tarred over, most still in poor condition. A few new stores, a new library and school, a new single-decker bus paid for by the Elders to bring the kids back home in the evening. Still, these are the subtle disguises which conceal the old ways and the superstition that lives on as before.
To the north and south lay the hills. To the east, a steep-walled canyon that connects with smaller canyons, all forming a network of crevices that seem to hem the valley in on all sides. On the edge of the western slope rests a great stone. Even in summer the stone seems to cast a shadow over the valley, robbing it of warmth.
So the outside world tends to pass the valley by. And the people of the valley, either from hatred or fear, prefer to stay within the rocky boundaries of their own choosing, to be born there, schooled there, wed there and buried there. It is said that anyone in the valley can find a family connection somewhere between any two individuals in the area. Some say that the people of the valley have married their own for too many years. It can be seen in the wild remoteness of their eyes.
The children are generally told what will be expected of them when they are between six and ten, whenever they seem capable of understanding. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, there are always a handful who feel sickened by the idea. They feel anger, disgust, outrage, despite all the explanations. But the terms are strict and absolute, and eventually most children bend under the will of the Elders. Those who don’t, well...
They go on. They leave the valley, they walk ahead into the unknown world beyond, and if they are lucky, very lucky, they do not come back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE MOUNTAINS JUST SOUTH OF SALT LAKE CITY WERE DEAD silent except for the rustle of scurrying lizards and the sound of wind on stone—still a fit place for scavenger birds.
To the west, over jagged ridges of rocks and peaks, thin white clouds drifted against a cobalt horizon; to the east, the mountains stood purple in wine-colored infinity. Nothing was visible except the land—no stock, no dwellings, nor man.
“Do you see it, Dad?” Kristy wailed. “Do you?”
“No, but we’ll find it.” Ron’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Kristy’s eyes loomed out at him. For the first time in days she was excited about something. Really excited. New Mexico, Kansas and Nebraska had bored her. The Black Hills of South Dakota frightened her. Wyoming put her to sleep. Ron had placed his hopes on Salt Lake City. A complete bust. But suddenly, out of nowhere, Kristy had found something to have captured her imagination.
“How far do you think?” Chandal hesitated, leaning on the overnight bag that separated her from her husband.
“Until the next bathroom,” Ron filled in knowledgeably. “I don’t know. Maybe twenty miles, maybe a thousand. I’d say let’s stop, but we’re in lizard heaven. I mean, you wouldn’t like to go over there by that brush, would you?”
Chandal shuddered as a lizard lifted its primitive head. “Keep driving.”
“Right.”
At the detour sign, Ron turned the dusty blue station wagon off the main highway onto a narrow asphalt road that shimmered with vapor and sunlight.
On either side, vast splotches of turned brush, scrub oak, aspen and red pine spread across the desolate land, and the road seemed endless. Ron drove the car flat-out for a ways, then slowed. He winced a little. The road wasn’t any great shakes. The country was suffering from softening of the arteries.
“Hold on,” he said, too late. Kristy had already been jolted backward and slid down between the seats onto the hard floor, between the cooler and the collection of plants Chandal had amassed along the way.
“Are you all right?” Chandal asked. The wind from the open window caught her fine brown hair and swept it neatly to one side as she turned to stretch over the back of the seat.
Kristy had already regained her balance.
Chandal reached out and pushed loose strands of black hair away from the child’s sweating face. “She’s so hot. Let’s stop for a minute, Ron.”
“Just a few more miles. I know the damn thing is around here somewhere. We saw it, right? So it’s got to be here.” Ron slowed the car and peered out. The sun was hot and fierce. There was no shade or shelter in sight—one spot was as unrelenting as another.
“Maybe that’s it, Ron.” Chandal leaned against the dashboard and pointed straight ahead.
Kristy practically climbed into the front seat in anticipation.
“No, that’s not it. Too small,” Ron said. “It was bigger, wasn’t it, Kristy? Different shape entirely.”
“No, Mom. That’s not it! That’s not it!” she wailed.
“Hush up, we’ll find it.” Chandal shifted restlessly, fidgeted.
“Your mother’s right, Kristy. Relax.”
“All right.”
Then a small sideways glance from Chandal, followed by, “Let’s stop for a few minutes, okay? Then I’ll drive for awhile.”
“We’re supposed to change every hundred miles.”
“What difference does it make? Fifty—a hundred.”
Ron slowed down again, glanced into the rearview mirror, then hit the accelerator.
“Ron, you really should slow down.”
“I’m only doing fifty-five.”
“Sixty—then twenty. When you realize you’re doing twenty—you speed up again. You’re not consistent. Think about your driving.”
“But it’s around here somewhere. Kristy wants to see it.”
“Maybe the detour has turned us around. It could be anywhere.”
“I know where it is,” Kristy chimed in.
Ron turned to face her. “You do? Where?”
Kristy did not answer him. Merely smiled.
“Watch out!” screamed Chandal.
From the corner of his eye he saw it. A large boulder sliding down into the roadway. He never slackened speed. His hands jerked the wheel; the car skidded across the road with a howl of rubber, back end swinging. Ron gripped the wheel tightly, shoved the accelerator to the floor.
A metallic twang mixed with a crash as the car was hit in the rear by the rock. The vehicle bounced and leaped off the road, onto another road made not for cars but for livestock. Ahead there was a sharp turn. Ron swerved the car around the bend and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle bucked and sputtered to a dead halt.
It took Ron a few seconds to understand that the car had stopped, and that everyone seemed to be in one piece. Chandal clung to the dashboard, not moving. Confused, Ron turned. Where was Kristy? A sudden swirl of dust and heat made it difficult to breathe.
“Kristy, are you all right?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said and began to whimper.
“Del?”
“Christ,” she breathed and seemed to collapse with the sudden release of breath.
Ron did not move for a moment. Then, like a volcanic crater, he began venting steam. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. “Son of a bitch! GODDAMN SON OF—”
“Ron...”
“Right,” he said and flung open the car door. He clambered out, his voice trailing off when he found his feet touching hard earth. He was standing, he was moving, everything was going to be all right.
He stood alone behind the passenger’s side of the car. Through the rear glass he watched Chandal reach back and wipe Kristy’s face with a handkerchief. “Is she all right?” he hollered.
“I think so.”
Shaking his head, he examined the damage. The back end of the car was dented, but not badly. The bumper had been crushed and the rear tire was flat. Other than that, the car seemed fine.
“How bad is it?” Chandal asked, leaning out the car window.
“A flat.”
“That’s it?”
“A few dents. Nothing serious.”
Ron lifted the spare from the back of the wagon and began to change the tire. He remembered what a great adventure the vacation had promised to be. But even Kristy had lost her enthusiasm. Somehow the hot summer days had blended into hot summer nights, and then into hot summer days again, and there had come to be a feeling of monotony about it all. It was partly because of money, Ron thought for the fiftieth time, lowering the car off the jack. Of course, it hadn’t helped either that the car’s air conditioner had broken down somewhere outside of Rapid City, South Dakota. He had stopped several times to get it repaired, but had always been told it would take days to fix. So they had driven on.
“Oh, Jesus!” he wailed.
“What is it?” Chandal wailed back.
“The spare. It hardly has enough air in it. The damn thing is almost flat. I can’t believe this,” he said flicking large beads of sweat away from his brow. He looked as though he had just stepped out of his swimming pool. “Damn,” he muttered, then thought: It was time to stop anyway. But he did not laugh at his own humor. Who could laugh? The temperature had to be well over a hundred degrees with no shade in sight.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” he said and climbed the leeward side of a small hill, man and temper stewing in the fierce heat, and at the top he stopped. He looked in all directions, seeing nothing but more hills, and after that a hundred more, all higher and steeper than the one before. Like a machine who had run out of fuel, he dropped dejected onto a rock. The silence was deafening.
“Daddy?” Kristy poked her head out of the window.
“What?”
“There’s a gas station, Daddy. Just ahead.”
“Sure. And my ass chews bubble gum!”
“Ron, cut that out!” Chandal scowled.
“Sorry.”
“Just over the next hill, Mom. There’s a gas station.”
“How do you know that?” asked Chandal.
“I saw it,” Kristy said. “When we were at the top.”
Ron stood and looked around automatically; there was no gas station to be seen. “She must have been seeing things.” He dropped again onto the rock. Had he known that traversing the rocky wasteland was going to be like this, he gladly would have stayed at home. Suddenly all he wanted to do was to bury himself in the midst of some teeming metropolis. He was obsessed with the desire for traffic and buildings and masses of people, clients screaming at him over the telephone, air-conditioned offices and tall frosted glasses of rum topped with cool crisp pieces of pineapple.
Ron settled back now, clasped his hands on his stomach as he closed his eyes; he blew a loud sigh through his lips. He began to drift. After a moment he heard the car door close, heard Chandal say, “Kristy, you stay here,” then pictured her inching forward. He felt her shadow pass over him.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
He opened one eye and peered. “Melt.”
“Seriously.”
He sat up. “Oh, I’m serious. I can feel it. I’m melting!”
“Maybe Kristy did see a gas station. It’s worth a try.”
Abruptly he stood up, his frown clearing into a smile rapidly like dissolving clouds. “Always the optimist, ah? Well, it’s worth a try. Let’s go.” Doubtful, yet with his fingers crossed, he backed the car up the narrow road, spun around onto the main road and headed east.
Almost before Ron brought the station wagon to a dust-spraying stop in front of the General Store and Station, Chandal had Kristy by the hand, had the car door open and was out and heading for the second of the two doors marked Men and Women. Ron hunched over the wheel, his jaw set in stone. He still could not believe it. Kristy had been right.
When he next looked up, he found himself being stared at—a primeval weather-worn face out of the Dark Ages gazing at him with intense indifference.
“Can I help you?” the man asked. His breath struck Ron full in the face, smelling of cheap booze.
Ron stared in disbelief. At first he wasn’t so much frightened as he was confused. The leather-faced apparition peering at him through the window was holding a rifle, for Chrissakes. Two barrels with a heavy wooden stock. Ron had never actually come face to face with a shotgun before, but he was positive he was looking at one now.
“Sorry,” the man said and laughed. “Just got back from hunting.” He lowered his weapon to the ground. “You hunt?” he asked.
Ron said, “No.”
“Afraid of getting shot, I bet.” The man chuckled.
“I guess.”
“Hell, just hang a sign around yourself saying: “Don’t Shoot! I’m A Man!”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“Your back tire’s going flat.”
“I know.”
“Got a spare?”
“That is the spare.”
“Oh, hell.” The man inched back some, squatted down and inspected the tire. “On vacation, are you?”
“Yes.” Ron stepped from the car.
“Well, a person can learn a lot traveling the country.” He rose and kicked the tire. “Plenty to see if you keep your eyes open.”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“The tire.”
“Shot.” His eyes flicked at Ron, his mouth forming a wry grin. Still staring, he explained that the gas station was closed. He’d gone out of business a year or so ago, when the new highway came through. He’d been unable to sell. Now his brother and he made a small earning, not a living, from the General Store. But the gas station, yes, the gas station had gone out of business. “However,” he added, “I’ll be glad to pump some air in that tire for you. That should at least get you to Brackston.”
