Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“When I die,” he said to Dack, “bury me next to Ayradyss and tell no one of my passing. Run this place for me. Keep Duncan and Angus for human contacts as well as for their work, eventually promoting them to caretakers. Give them periodic raises to keep them happy. Take care of my son. Try to figure what is best for the boy. Keep him healthy and well fed. See that he learns to read and write and do numbers.”

“I hope, sir,” Dack stated, “that this is not an anticipation of anything imminent.”

“So do I,” said Donnerjack, “but these instructions had to be given sooner or later, and I decided that sooner was better.”

He sat up that night on the third floor, near to the place of heaviest manifestation. He had with him a bottle of Laphroaig Scotch Whisky and a glass.

Along about midnight it seemed that he heard a faint rattling of chains. He waited a few moments to be sure. Then it came again.

“Ghost? That is you, isn’t it?” he called.

“Aye, laird. ‘Tis.”

“Have you a moment before you make your rounds?”

“Certainly, laird. You’ve been away?”

“Aye.”

“Before we talk may I ask what ‘tis you’re drinkin’?”

“Good Scotch whisky. Wish I could offer you some.”

“Ah! ‘Twould be good to be drunk again. But there is truth in some of the old stories.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pour this old soldier a libation. I get some pleasure out of the fumes.

If you could slop a little into that ashtray I could be takin’ in the aura while we talk.”

“Done, my friend,” said Donnerjack, pouring. “By the by, I’ll never know whether this was all a funny dream. I had a lot tonight.”

“I’ll try to remember to remind you,” said the ghost, making a sniffing noise. “Ah! That’s good stuff!”

“I lost my wife recently, you may know.”

“Ach! My condolences.”

“Thanks. I was wondering…”

“What, laird?”

“I was wondering whether you might have encountered her spirit in some ghostly place.”

The other shook his head. “I canna say. Though that proves nothin’. Sometimes they wander far afield, confused, for a time. Other occasions, they may be off to some spiritual reward I’m not eligible for. Wish I could know that kinda rest. This drink’s a good substitute, though.”

Donnerjack glanced at the ashtray and wondered how it could have become half-empty so quickly.

“Well, thank you. I’d be grateful for any news of her you come across.”

“I’ll do what I can, laird.” Another sniff, and for the first time Donnerjack saw the specter smile. “We’ll do this again one night?”

“Sure thing. Many, I’ve a feeling.”

A few sniffs later and the tray was empty. The ghost rattled his chains and staggered off.

Donnerjack took another drink and staggered off himself.

The following day, Donnerjack talked to Reese Jordan. He told him the story of his recent visit to Virtu. There was a long pause, then, “Oddly, I believe most of what you say,” Reese said, “though your personification of Death troubles me. You were always a good hands-on man, with a rule of thumb for just about everything. I think that everything you’ve described is within theory. I’ve decided to take your notes and Bansa’s, together with my own conjecture, and try to approximate a unified field.”

“Apart from the pure beauty of it, I’d love to tie together the things I’ve been doing with more understanding. Too bad old Warren isn’t around to help.”

“Yes, that would be like the old days.”

“Tell me, can you get out of bed?”

“Oh, yes, they’re walking me every day—a little farther each time. I’ll tell you right now, I’m better than I was the last time something came up.”

“Great. Then let’s talk once a week, whether or not we’ve made progress.”

“Okay. It’s good to have a colleague again.”

They worked together for the better part of three months, during which time—try as he might not to—Donnerjack completed the design of Death’s palace. The uniform theory was further along and almost completely in Jordan’s hands by that time. Donnerjack had done the best he could for the time available on his projects, and he had carried his bracelet work to another stage, an order of magnitude more powerful than it had been. He played with his son every afternoon in Virtu’s surroundings, on and off of the Great Stage.

The day finally came when he saw a moire flash by the window. He checked his fields, then increased their intensity. Several hours passed uneventfully, then he noticed that a violet aura had come into being about each projector he could see from his office window.

He moved to his main control and intensified the fields. In crossing the room he glanced at his computer screen. It was displaying a skull.

“Hm. Under attack. All right,” he said.

Using a set of receivers on the roof, he attempted to triangulate for the source of the energy. Nothing. It was just there. He raised the intensity again and moved to the screen.

“Are you just decoration, or do you want to talk?” he asked.

There was no reply.

“If you make it through, give me a shot at you hand to hand. I’m willing to try dismembering you.”

The figure on the screen remained unchanging.

“All right. Your fields against mine,” he said. “Let me know when you want to call it a day.”

The projectors suddenly flared, as if the aurora borealis walked among them. He turned the power all the way up.

The projectors began to whine.

“Trying to burn them out, are you? Wait till I kick in the backups.”

All that day and much of the night the duel went on. Then abruptly, about dawn, the attack let up. Donnerjack heard a chuckle and glanced at the screen. The skull slowly faded.

“Does that mean he found a flaw?” Donnerjack wondered aloud. “Or is it just a part of the war of nerves?”

He lowered the fields. They would all have to be reset now, of course. And he wondered how much his opponent had learned during the long assault.

Propping his feet on his desk he leaned back in his reclining chair and slept. And that was how Dack found him later, save that his heart had stopped beating and he no longer breathed.

John D’Arcy Donnerjack was laid to rest beside his beloved Ayradyss. It rained that day and somewhere in the mountains the piper played. For three nights the banshee howled. When Reese Jordan called later he was told that Donnerjack was traveling.

Dack had suddenly to become expert on the care and feeding of young children. He consulted all of the recipes for everything that had been given to the boy and he bathed him several times a day, changing him when necessary. Under his ministrations, John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior gained weight, smiled occasionally, and yelled regularly. The medbot was able to take care of all his childhood diseases and immunizations. Every day Dack left him to play on the Great Stage, where he beheld many wonders but fortunately was immune to their touch.

The months rolled on, as did the seasons. Calls for Donnerjack grew fewer and fewer, as it seemed he was always traveling. Dack spoke with the child every day, and when the boy began responding he doubled his efforts.

A number of times Dack was certain he overheard the boy babbling to someone else. Exploring, he found him in the company of a dog— possibly—which looked to have been fathered by a junk heap. There was something terribly intimidating about it, though he could not say what it was. One time, there was nothing there but a beautiful black butterfly of a sort he had never seen before. He could understand a child’s talking to something that had interested him, but it had sounded like a two-sided conversation. Later, it was a long shimmering snake with scales like beaten copper with whom he found him. Later still, a monkeylike creature. He shrugged his plastic and metal shoulders. They could do the boy no physical harm. And talking, he knew, was good for him at this point.