David Barbour - Shadows Bend

She realized that this was the first time they had actually seen each other; though they had been corresponding for years, this was their first meeting in the flesh.

“And who might this be?” Smith asked Lovecraft. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Ah,” said Lovecraft. “Clark Ashton Smith, this is Miss Glory McKenna. And vice versa if you please.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss McKenna,” said Smith. He took her hand and planted a mock chivalric kiss on its back. “I hope Bob’s wild driving wasn’t too taxing on your nerves?”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith,” Glory replied. “I’ve enjoyed your poetry for years. And no, the driving wasn’t as wretched as you’d expect.”

“Please call me Clark,” said Smith. “If HP had told me he’d be bringing a lady friend, I would have made better preparations.”

“She ain’t no lady friend,” said Howard. “We were givin’ her a ride to Vegas, but now she’s in over her head.”

Smith gave Howard a sidelong glance, then turned back to Glory. “Please, let’s go inside. You may want to freshen up before you join us for”-he pulled a watch out of his pocket-“ah, lunch. Miss McKenna?” Smith held the door open and motioned her in.

“Thank you. Call me Glory.” She stepped into the cool shade of the cabin. “Clark?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind terribly if I called my sister first? She’s in the hospital and—”

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry, but as you can see, we’re rather isolated and rustic out here. I’m afraid we have no telephone. Or electricity or running water for that matter.”

“Goodness, how do you get by?”

“We do fine. How did people get by before all the cluttered inventions of the modern age?” While Glory went into the kitchen, Smith ushered the others back outside to unload the car. He was surprised by how little they were carrying.

“You’re hittin’ it off purty quick,” observed Howard. “I didn’t know you were such a skirt chaser.”

Smith smiled. “Who is she? And do you mind my asking?”

“She ain’t neither of our girlfriends, if that’s what you’re askin’,” said Howard. “I’ll leave it at that.”

“It slipped my mind,” said Lovecraft.

“Eh?” said Smith.

“I forgot to mention that she was accompanying us. But let me assure you, she is now an important member of our party.”

“Well, then, I’ll not compromise your professional relationship,” Smith said with a smile. “And by the way, you boys look like the cat dragged you in. And speaking of cats, perhaps you’d like a nap after lunch?”

“Tell ya the truth, I wouldn’t mind hittin’ the sack right now,” said Howard. “You, HP?”

“My energies are a bit more flexible, but I, too, would welcome a chance to visit the Land of Nod.”

“Nod is where Cain went when he was banished,” said Smith. “East of Eden, into the Land of Nod.”

“I have hardly committed fratricide,” Lovecraft replied quickly. “I was alluding to Winkin and Blinkin.”

Smith smiled and didn’t bother to argue.

“Just one thing,” said Lovecraft. “Since we have come this far in a state of high anxiety, let us at least confirm the existence of the book before we retire.”

“This way,” said Smith.

Howard didn’t look pleased, but he nodded his assent. He followed Smith and Lovecraft up the walk into the house, lagging slightly behind to hide his .45 strategically in his bag.

Smith took the two men inside, where they laid their things down in the living room before proceeding into the kitchen. Glory was standing near the back door, smoking a cigarette. On the table lay an, oblong shape over which Smith had draped a red-silk scarf. For some’ reason the arrangement reminded Howard of a body laid out for cleaning before a wake. Smith pulled the scarf away with a flourish. Howard and Lovecraft expected to see the cover, but what they got instead was a thick rectangle of black velvet.

Smith noticed their puzzled expressions. He had wrapped the book in the velvet first out of respect and now, more recently, out of uneasiness. He did not exactly fear the book yet, but lately his dreams had begun to take on a sinister quality infected by the scraps of ciphered Latin he had been able to decode: obscenities, incoherent rants, wholly illogical assertions. He did not know whether it was his translations that gave them their weirdness, but he was wont to suspect that the cause lay in the original Arabic of the mad Abdul Alhazred. “My apologies for the false drama,” he said as he unwrapped the bundle and there it was, the mythic book come to life. The binding was a lightly tanned vellum like material, but clearly not vellum. It was stamped in a weathered crimson color, the letters embossed so long ago their depth was nearly gone NECRONOMICON and Abdul Alhazred. On the spine of the book were yellowed slivers of something, that must have been ivory, and bound into the spine itself was a long, coarse-woven ribbon of bleached white. Howard and Lovecraft stared at the book, mouths nearly agape, as If they had Witnessed the unveiling of a holy relic.

“I recognized it immediately,” said Smith. “It wasn’t by sight, but by intuition. I swear to you it gave off a black aura that I could feel from across the store. When I saw the cover and the contents, that only confirmed my first impression.”

Lovecraft ran his fingers over the book, tentatively stroking the cracked cover. “I still find its authenticity rather dubious. What did the dealer say?”

“It’s bound in human skin. Slivers of bone in the spine, and the bookmark is made of bleached human hair.”

Lovecraft quickly drew his hand away. “And how would an antiquarian bookseller establish all this?”

“He happens to be the son of a prominent mortician, HP.”

“Isn’t there some law against this sort of thing?” asked Glory.

Smith shook his head. “The book is a relic. And the seller was happy to get rid of it while doing me a favor at the same time. He’s a great fan of Weird Tales and the like.”

“So this is the big deal?” said Glory. “I thought you had a fancy pan of brownies under the cloth.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Lovecraft.

Smith smiled. “Glory, if only a fraction of what HP imagined about this book is as real as this seems to be, then what we have here is one of the most gruesome products of human history.”

“I’m sorry,” said Glory. “I guess I’m punchy from the trip.”

“Thank you, Clark,” said Lovecraft. “But now that I’ve confirmed its existence, I find myself drained of all physical and mental energies. I now second Bob’s suggestion that we rest before proceeding.”

“Come on,” said Smith, “I’ll show you where you boys can both get some sleep. My parents may be back by tonight, so that leaves only two rooms. We can all shack up in the living room together, or I have a better plan. It’s a bit hot for it now, but tonight we can sleep outside in my study, which is what I usually do unless it rains. I’m assuming that you boys will do the gentlemanly thing and let your lady friend have my room?”

“She ain’t our lady friend,” Howard said again, looking at Glory out of the corners of his eyes.

“Shall we proceed to the living room for now, where it’s cooler, while the lady finishes her cigarette?”

Howard found both of the sofas much too soft to sleep on, so he let Lovecraft take the comfortable one and went back out to the car to get his bedroll. When he came back up, he found Smith standing awkwardly in the center of the living room with an armload of linen and pillows. Lovecraft was stretched out, still in his clothes, having only removed his shoes for comfort. Smith put his load down and gingerly covered Lovecraft as if he were a child.