David Barbour - Shadows Bend

Her response was like the instant nausea and disgust one feels at the sight of spoiled food-it was something that visceral and primitive.

And yet these images had some sort of symbolic or ritual meaning that was abundantly clear by the careful attention paid to their composition and execution, by the way certain configurations would appear again and again like the organic embodiments of some alien alphabet.

Glory turned to another page, this one illustrated by a single small image near the center. “Clark,” she said.

Smith looked up, scratching his head.

“Have you seen this?”

He leaned toward her to get a closer look. “There’s something wrong with that page,” he said. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. “Did it get wet?”

“Wet?” When Glory looked down, she saw what Smith referred to. The image, at first, appeared simply to be another woodcut illustration surrounded by text, but now she could see that it was much more complex, and the text at the borders of the image had begun to bleed-or at least that’s how it appeared. When she rubbed her eyes and looked again, the letters seemed to have gotten distorted, stretched out like fibers, and the symbol seemed to have grown larger and more distinct.

“I think our eyes are fatigued,” said Smith. “I, could swear that image was only half that size when I saw it last. All this staring at letters can distort one’s sense of scale.”

Glory looked once again at the illustration, then looked away and then quickly back again. She couldn’t see any motion, but it seemed to have changed again between glances. It was like comparing sequential frames in a motion picture film to point out the almost invisible differences. “Let’s take a break,” she said. As she placed a paper marker and closed the book, she saw the image move out of the corner of her eye. One of the tentacles had extended beyond the frame of the woodcut.

She went through with the motion and closed the book, then opened it again, quickly. “Look,” she said.

Smith, now standing, peered over her shoulder. “Hideous,” he said. “Truly hideous. More repulsive than I recall.”

“But Clark!” Glory saw the eye of the squid creature suddenly blink , open and stare into hers. She felt the gorge rise in her throat, tasted the acrid bile. She closed her eyes and slammed the book shut.

“Let’s rest a while before we become irrational,” said Smith. “This book does strange things to the imagination. How about some coffee?”

“That’s just what I need,” said Glory.

While Smith busied himself with filling the pot, Glory moved to< the fire and poked at the wood to feel its warmth. She realized she was cold for some reason, as if the chill of Smith’s underground pantry hadn’t quite left her bones. She shivered again. She wanted to talk, about something other than the book now.

“I feel like I stepped into some sort of dream when I left Texas,”

Glory said. “HP and Bob are about as queer as they come, but then ‘ those men in black and the old Indian medicine man-who would believe all of that? Last week I was living in a hotel and minding my life like anyone else.”

“Our lives are hardly ever as mundane as we assume,” said Smith, arranging the pot over the flames. “We’re always on the threshold of the fantastic, and you’ve just crossed it for now.”

“I’d rather go back. All I wanted was a ride to my sister’s place, and now I’m in some sort of mortal danger.” Glory lit a cigarette and flicked the match away.

That alarmed Smith. The instant the match hit the dry earth he stepped over and ground it under his heel. “You can never be too careful about the threat of fire this time of year,” he said. “Things are easily inflamed this season. Obviously, you haven’t been in this part of the country before. Tell me about your home.”

“Enough about me,” Glory said, somewhat embarrassed at her carelessness. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Me?” Smith said with mock modesty. “Why, I’m just a self-educated handyman who dabbles in the arts.”

“You really underestimate yourself, don’t you?”

“There really isn’t much to measure. At least not of great quence.”

“Some people have gone as far as to say that you’re the American Keats,” said Glory.

Smith knew exactly who those people were, but he pretended ignorance. “Sheer flattery,” he replied. “I hardly have the adolescent idealism of Keats. Nor do I want to die so young.”

“The hottest flame burns most brief?” said Glory.

“But smoldering embers can keep you warm through many a cold night,” said Smith. “I’ve dabbled in lots of forms, but I haven’t found my true calling, at least not yet.”

“Why are you wasting your time writing for those awful ‘magazines? ”

“You have little faith in the power of imagination.”

“I’d hardly rank the likes of HP and Bob with Keats and Shelley,” said Glory.

“They don’t purport to be poets, you know.”

“Well…”

“And you forget that Bob and HP-and I, for that matter-never enjoyed the education those poets did. We’re less beholden to the ghosts of tradition and convention. We’re creating our own. And I would dare to say that given another fifty years, it’s the stories in Weird Tales, if not the names attached to them, that will have the more profound effect on your Everyman. Who even reads the Romantic poets outside the classroom anymore?”

“I do,” said Glory.

“So do I.”

They laughed.

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me, Glory. But I was wondering if you had any attachment to Bob or HP.”

“Attachment? You mean romantic attachment? Why, you are being forward, aren’t you?”

Smith gave a crooked smile.

“The answer is no.”

“The reason I ask is because I couldn’t help but notice there’s a certain tension in Bob’s manner when he’s around you. Not exactly a possessiveness, but a sort of watchful quality.”

“Oh, be frank about it, Clark. He seethes when he’s around me, and I’m largely to blame. I confess I made advances at him one night while HP was asleep. I really shouldn’t have.” Glory smoothed back her hair and noticed the faint disk of the moon in the blue sky. “Bob’s the sort of man a girl would love to have as an older brother. He’s strong and he’s protective. He’s kind of thick when it comes to women, though.”

“Thick?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. He rebuffed me that night pretending he was morally outraged, but I think it was really because he was scared.” She paused momentarily. “Do you think he might be a virgin?”

“Given the deportment of his heroes in his writing, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. We really can’t hide our true selves even in our most fantastic work.”

“You write those sorts of stories, too, don’t you?”

“Me?” Smith laughed. “My heroes are suave men of the world compared to Bob’s.”

“Suave? In what way, exactly?”

Smith approached her and looked down, obliquely, past his nose.

“Maybe I should offer an example?” he said, and kissed her.

Glory felt her knees go weak, but she drew back before things got out of hand. “I don’t feel right about this,” she said. “It feels like I’m betraying their trust.”

“I thought—”

“I’d rather know I’m going to be alone with you, without someone barging in.”

“They’re tired,” said Smith. “Let’s meet when they’ve gone to sleep for the night. Would you join me for a moonlight stroll?”

“I bet you say that to all the ladies in Auburn.”

“No, just the married ones.”

“Scandalous,” said Glory. “I quite agree.”