Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (10 page)

 
          
Thunstone
made them out:

           
CSPB OSSMI URS NSND
SUQL IUB.

 
          
“What
is it?” he asked.

 
          
“A
medal of Saint Benedict,” replied Father Bundren. “He’s remembered as one of
the greatest of exorcists. How old this particular medal is I can’t certainly
say, but you can see for yourself that it is very old indeed. Do those letters
mystify you? Each group is made up of the initials of the words of a powerful
prayer.”

 
          
“It
certainly banished that mark,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“Yes, completely.”
Father Bundren carefully stowed the medal
in an inside pocket. “However
that mark
came here, or
whatever it intended against you, it’s been defeated. And every evil that is
defeated will give you greater strength to defeat others.”

           
He sounded weary and he still looked
tense, pale. Thunstone went to pick up his brandy.

           
“Wouldn’t you like a drink?” he
asked.

           
“Thanks, just now I’d be glad for
one.”

           
Thunstone poured brandy into two
glasses and handed one to Father Bundren. They sat and sipped.

           
“How fortunate that you had that
medal with you just now,” said
Thunstone.

           
At last Father Bundren smiled. “My
son,” he said, “I always have it with me.”

 
 
          
When
Father Bundren had taken his leave, Thunstone went to his telephone again. His
hand shook slightly as he picked it up. He grimaced at his own nervousness, and
called the number of
Sharon
’s room.

 
          
“Yes,”
said her soft voice.

 
          
“Listen,
Sharon
, will you come and have a drink with me?”

 
          
“A
drink in your room, dear?” She seemed to laugh softly. “What if the house
detective came, too?
If this place has a house detective?”

 
          
“I’d
let him come, and he could have a drink, too,” said Thunstone. “He might be
glad for one. But I have something important to tell you. Give me two minutes
to bring some ice and then come in.”

 
          
“As you say.”

 
          
He
went out quickly and to the end of the hall and fetched back a plastic bin of
cubes from the ice machine. Returning, he washed the glasses Father Bundren and
he had used and poured modest drinks of brandy into both glasses and dropped in
ice cubes. The door opened and
Sharon
came in, smiling.

 
          
“Why
so conspiratorial?” she asked.

 
          
He
gave her one of the glasses and they sat down, she in a chair, he on the bed.
“You’ll need that drink when I tell you,” he said earnestly.

 
          
“Go
ahead and tell me.”

 
          
He
did so, describing the
black hand
mark that no longer showed
on the inside of the door, describing what he had seen of Father Bundren’s
actions in driving it away.
Sharon
drank brandy and went to examine the door.

 
          
“Not
a trace,” she said. “Not a stain. What must it have been? And who—”

 
          
“I
nominate Rowley Thome,” broke in Thunstone. “Evil is his business, and we two
are his targets here.”

 
          
“His
targets,”
Sharon
repeated. “What will he do to us?”

           
“We’ll keep him from doing
anything.”

           
He went to where his suitcase lay
open and took out a rectangular case the size of a cigar box. It was of dark
leather and had no visible sign of a lid. Thunstone pressed his thumb at the
side and the case sprang open, revealing a collection of objects. He took one,
an oval that looked to be made of red baked clay, two inches by three. Its
edges were bound with streaks of silver. It, too, had to be pressed in a
certain way to make it open. From it Thunstone lifted a small silver bell,
hardly larger than a thimble. It gave a clear, musical jingle.

 
          
“Here,”
he said, “I want you to have this. Keep it with you always, day and night.”

 
          
Sharon
took it from him and studied it. “What is
it? I’ve never seen such silverwork.”

 
          
“It
was carved from a
block,
it was never cast or hammered
out. It was given me once by a highly holy man, because I’d helped him. Look at
the letters on it.”

 
          
She
bent close to look. “Latin,” she said.
“Est
mea cunctorum terror vox daemoniorum
.
”

 
          
“My
voice is the terror of all demons,” Thunstone translated. “I used it when
Rowley Thome called up devils against me, and I sent them back where they came
from, and they took him along. Now he’s been prayed back into this world
somehow—with prayers to those same devils, perhaps. I won’t mention their
names, I doubt if that would be lucky for us. Keep that bell always with you.”

           
“Won’t you need it yourself?” she
asked,

 
          
“Take
it and keep it,” he said again, and she put the bell down into her bosom. It
spoke as she tucked it in. They finished their drinks.

 
          
“Now,”
said Thunstone, “it’s not yet
four o’clock
. Would you like to walk out and see the
campus, maybe see something of the town?”

 
          
He
picked up his cane and they went out together, down to the lobby and across the
street to the campus. They walked past the auditorium and other buildings on
both sides of the street, and came to where they could look to a great green
rectangle of lawn with huge old trees here and there. Turning left, they paced
along another sidewalk, broad and of worn, rosy brick. Students walked past
them, in groups, in pairs, singly, Most of these were contrivedly untidy, in
patched jeans and patterned shirts. Others seemed dressed almost primly, as
though they were on their way to church. A gaunt girl in a robelike garment of
dark green bobbed up in front of them and stopped them.

 
          
“Thunstone!”
she shrilled.
“Mr. Thunstone, who knows everything!”

 
          
Thunstone
gazed at her. The hood of her cape was flung back from a rumpled mass of dull
brown hair. Her mouth quivered and squirmed in her round face, as though she
felt pain,

 
          
“You
walk with a cane, like a blind man,” she said accusingly. “Where’s your tin
cup, your dark glasses?”

 
          
“ ‘None
so blind as those who think they see,’ ” he said
gently, quoting Matthew Henry’s worn aphorism.

 
          
She
blinked at that. Her eyes were gray, pale and dull.

 
          
“So,”
she said, “you’ve come here to nose things out, things that aren’t any of your
business.”

 
          
“I
came here because I was invited to speak,” said Thunstone.
“As
for nosing things out, why not?
I’ve done a lot of that in my time,”

 
          
“I’ll
come and listen to you talk tomorrow,” said the girl “If you’re still here.”

 
          
“I’ll
be here,” promised Thunstone.

 
          
“Huh!”

 
          
The
girl went past them, almost at a run.
Sharon
watched her go.

 
          
“I
think she’s been taking drugs,” said
Sharon
. “Her eyes looked as if she had.”

 
          
“Lots
of young people take drugs,” said Thunstone as they walked on.
“Lots of people of all ages, when it comes to that.”

 
          
In
the center of the green expanse rose a sort of obelisk. Thunstone wondered what
it commemorated. “Let’s go over there,” he said.

 
          
They
walked to the monument. On its base were carved the words:

 
          
IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF
 
SAMUEL WHITNEY
 
(1801-1871)

 
          
FOUNDER OF WHITNEY COLLEGE
 
I KNOW NOT WHITHER

 
          
Sharon
studied the inscription. “What’s that quotation?” she wondered.

 
          
“It’s
from the
Rubiyat
,
”
Thunstone told her. “One of the
most daunting verses of that poem which teaches us, life is terrible and so is
death, so drink and drink and try to forget.”

 
          
They
returned to the brick walk and came to the edge of the campus. A low wall of
rough stones, no higher than a tall man’s knee, bordered the edge of things. On
the far side ran Main Street, along which Lee Pitt had driven Thunstone the day
before. A row of students, men and women, sat on the wall. From hand to hand
they passed a roughly rolled cigarette, undoubtedly of marijuana. One young
man, scrubby in his faded denim clothes, picked at a guitar, not very
musically. He sang, and others to his right and left joined in. Thunstone and
Sharon stopped to hear:

 
          
Cummer,
go ye before, cummer, go ye;

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

 
          
Thunstone
led Sharon through a gap in the wall, to where they paused to wait for a
traffic light to change.

 
          
“That
song,” Sharon half whispered. “It sounded strange.”

 
          
“It’s
a very old one, and it has some significance in witchcraft,” said Thunstone.
“We’re told that they sang it at North Berwick Church in Scotland, when they
concocted a spell to sink King James’s ship at sea.”

 
          
“North
Berwick Church,” Sharon repeated. “I remember your telling me about that
business. And the chief devil at the ceremonies was named Fian.”

 
          
“Fian,”
nodded Thunstone. “Yes. And I’m wondering the same thing you’re wondering.”

 
          
The
light changed and they crossed to the opposite sidewalk. A squat brick post
office stood there, a flag at the top of the mast in front. They walked along
Main Street, past a restaurant with a sign that said
fast break,
past what seemed to be a stationery shop, past another
that displayed T-shirts with strange labels on them. Then a bank, and out of it
came the young man called Exum Layton, who had questioned Thunstone that
morning.

 
          
“Mr.
Thunstone,” he said at once. His limp-mustached face looked drawn and worried. “It’s
good to see you, sir.”

           
“Tell me something, Mr. Layton,”
said Thunstone. “Where does Grizel Fian live?”

           
“Off there.” Layton pointed westward
with an unsteady hand. “At the edge of the campus there’s an old cemetery, and
her house is on the far side of that, the only one at that point. It’s a big
house, it has pillars in front. You walk through the cemetery, and you can’t
miss it.”

           
“There was a woman dwelt by a
churchyard,” said
Sharon
, as though to herself, but
Layton
glanced at her sharply.

 
          
“Shakespeare,”
he said. “That’s in Shakespeare somewhere.”

 
          
“In
The Winter's Tale,”
supplied
Thunstone. “Little Mamilius starts to tell a story, he promises it will have
sprites and goblins in it. But he doesn’t get any farther than the opening
sentence, about a man who dwelt by a churchyard.”

 
          
“That
play has my favorite stage direction,” contributed Sharon. “Exit, pursued by a
bear ”

 
          
If
she meant to make the conversation cheerful, she did not succeed. Layton stood
facing Thunstone.

 
          
“Look,”
he burst out. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Thunstone, something very important.”

 
          
“All
right, go ahead,” Thunstone bade him. “What’s on your mind?”

 
          
“Not
here, not here.” Layton’s worried eyes darted this way and that. “It would be
better if nobody saw us talking.” “Come with us, back to the Inn.”

           
“I’ll meet you there.”

 
          
“Then
come up in a few minutes to Room 312.”