Roger Zelazny: A Night in the Lonesome October

The wardrobe doors were open. The Thing stood before it.

«Free!» it announced, flexing its limbs, furling and unfurling its dark, scaly wings. «Free!»

«Like hell!» I said, curling back my lips and leaping.

I caught it directly in the midsection, knocking it back into the wardrobe again. I slashed twice, left and right, as it sought to seize me. I dropped down and bit one of its legs. I roared and threw myself on it again, slashing faceward.

It drew back, retreating to the rear of its prison, leaving a heavy scent of musk in the air. I shouldered the doors shut, reared up, and tried to close the latch with my paw. Jack entered just then and did it for me. He held his knife loosely in his right hand.

«You are an exemplary watchdog, Snuff,» he stated.

A moment later Larry Talbot came in.

«Problems?» he said. «Anything I can help with?»

The blade vanished before Jack turned.

«No, thank you,» he said. «It was less serious than it sounded. Shall we return to our tea?»

They departed.

I followed them down the stairs, Talbot moving as silently as the master. I'd a feeling, somehow, that he was in the Game, and that this incident had persuaded him that we were, too. For as he was leaving he said, «I see some busy days ahead, before this month is out. If you ever need help, of any sort, you can count on me.»

Jack studied him for several long moments, then replied, «Without even knowing my persuasion?»

«I think I know it,» Talbot answered.

«How?»

«Good dog you've got there,» Talbot said. «Knows how to close a door.»

Then he was gone. I followed him home, of course, to see whether he really lived where he said he did. When I saw that he did I had even more lines to draw. Interesting ones now, though.

He never turned and looked back, yet I knew that he could tell I was behind him all the way.

Later, I lay in the yard, drawing my lines. It had become a much more complicated enterprise. Footsteps approached along the road, halted.

«Good dog,» croaked an ancient voice. It was the Druid. There followed a plop on the ground nearby, as something he'd tossed over the garden wall landed. «Good dog.»

I rose and inspected it as he passed on along his way. It was a piece of meat. Only the most wretched of alley hounds might not have been wary. The thing reeked of exotic additives.

I picked it up carefully, bore it to a soft spot beneath a tree, dug a hole there, dropped it in, covered it.

«Bravo!» came a sibilant voice from above. «I didn't think you'd fall for that one.»

I glanced up. Quicklime was coiled about a branch overhead.

«How long have you been there?» I asked.

«Since your first visitor came by, the big one. I'd been watching him. Is he in the Game?»

«I don't know. I think he may be, but it's hard to tell. He's a strange one. Doesn't seem to have a companion.»

«Maybe he's his own best friend. Speaking of which…»

«Yes?»

«The crazy witch's companion may be running out of steam about now.»

«What do you mean?»

«'Ding, dong, dell.'»

«I don't follow you.»

«Literally. Pussy's in the well.»

«Who threw her in?»

«MacCab, full of sin.»

«Where is it?»

«By the outhouse, full of shit. Back of Crazy Jill's place. Keeps it from going dry, I guess.»

«Why tell me? You're the antisocial one.»

«I've played before,» he hissed. «I know it's too early in the Game to begin eliminating players. One should wait till after the death of the moon. MacCab and Morris are new at it, though.»

I was on my feet and moving.

«Pussyfoot, pussyfoot. Wet, wet, wet,» I heard him chanting as I ran off toward the hill.

I mounted the hill and raced down it toward Crazy Jill's, the landscape flowing to a blur about me. I pushed my way through a hedge when I reached her place, sought quickly, located the roofed and rock-girt structure, bucket on its rim. I ran to its side, rested my forepaws upon the ledge, and peered down into it. There was a faint splashing sound below.

«Gray!» I called.

A very faint «Here!» came to me.

«Get off to the side! I'm going to drop the bucket!» I called.

The splashing grew louder and faster.

I pushed the bucket off the ledge and listened to it wind down, heard it splash.

«Get in!» I called.

If you've ever tried turning a crank with your paws you know that it is rough work. It was a long, long while before I'd raised the bucket high enough for Graymalk to remove herself to the ledge. She stood there drenched and panting.

«How did you know?» she asked me.

«Quicklime saw it happen, felt the timing was bad, told me.»

She shook herself, began licking her fur.

«Jill snatched a collection of Morris and MacCab's herbs,» she said between licks. «Didn't go inside their place, though. They'd left them on their porch. Nightwind must have spotted us. Anything new?»

I told her about Bubo's visit last night, and Talbot's this morning.

«I'll go with you,» she said. «Later. When I'm rested and dry. We'll check out the Count's crypt.»

She shook herself again, licked again.

«In the meantime,» she went on, «I need a warm place, and some catnappery.»

«I'll see you later then. I have to check some things around the house.»

«I'll come by.»

I left her there near the outhouse. As I was making my way through the hedge, she called out, «By the way, thanks.»

« De nada » I said, and I moved on up the hill.

Last night we obtained more ingredients for the master's spell. As we paused on a corner in Soho the Great Detective and his companion came out of the fog and approached us.

«Good evening,» he said.

«Good evening,» Jack replied.

«Would you happen to have a light?»

Jack produced a package of wax vestas and passed it to him. Both men maintained eye contact as he lit his pipe.

«Lots of patrolmen about.»

«Yes.»

«Something's afoot, I daresay.»

«I suppose so.»

«It involves those killings, most likely.»

«Yes, I'd say you're right.»

He returned the matches.

The man had a strange way of regarding one's face, one's clothing, one's boots; and of listening.

As a watchdog, I could appreciate the mode of total attentiveness he assumed. It was not a normal human attitude. It was as if his entire being were concentrated in the moment, sensitive to every scrap of intelligence our encounter furnished.

«I've seen you about here other evenings.»

«And I've seen you.»

«Likely we'll meet again.»

«You may be right.»

«In the meantime, take care. It's become dangerous.»

«Watch out for yourself, also.»

«Oh, I will. Good night.»

«Good night.»

I had refrained from growling lightly for effect, though the thought had passed through my mind. I listened to their footsteps long after they had gone from sight.

«Snuff,» Jack said, «remember that man.»

Somewhere on the long, long walk home an owl passed us, riding the chill breezes on motionless wings. I could not tell whether it was Nightwind. There were rats about the bridge, and I did not know whether Bubo was one of them. Stars swam in the Thames, and the air was full of dirty smells.

I kept pace with Jack's long strides while investigating every sleeping street person huddled in every shelter along our way. I felt at times as if we were being followed, but could discover no reason for my apprehension. It could well be that our mere progress through October was in itself sufficient to produce anxiety. Things, of course, would continue to worsen before they got better, if they were ever to get better again.