David Barbour - Shadows Bend

“I believe what I see, Lovecraft. But that don’t mean I can help ya with any of it.”

“On the bus, I had more than ample time to review a wide range of possible strategies.” He held himself, hunching his shoulders, and shivered involuntarily before he continued. “My conclusion was that I would ask you to be my ally and join me on a trip to visit Klarkash-Ton in California. I believe he would know how to dispose of this unholy thing.”

“Clark Ashton Smith is a good choice, HP. He’s smarter than the both of us. But I’m afraid I can’t join you on this adventure.” Howard went back to the interrupted task of lighting the heater.

“Bob, you must,” said Lovecraft.

“I can’t.”

“I would not have come here if I thought any other option were available to me, Bob. I’m afraid you’re my only resource.”

“It’s out of the question. I have to stay here to look after my mother.” He handed the Artifact back without giving it another look, and Lovecraft quickly placed it back in his watch pocket.

“I understand your profound devotion and concern, Bob. I lost my mother not too long ago, and so I can empathize. But there’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do for advanced tuberculosis.”

“It ain’t TB!”

They both stood momentarily in silence, equally stunned by what Howard had just said. Lovecraft looked down, hanging his head, like someone defeated, while Howard tried to compose himself.

A light glowed in the hall, and Dr. Howard entered, carrying the hurricane lamp, which illuminated the entire living room, though dimly. The darker shadows retreated.

“I’m sorry, HP,” said Howard.

“You best be sorry your dear mother’s dyin’,” said Dr. Howard.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’ raising your voices like that and stompin’ all about like a coupl’a flamenco dancers? Your mother’s rest is hard enough to come by with the heavens blazin’ down on us.”

“My apologies, Doctor. It was my irrational fear of insects that caused the commotion.”

“You get used to ‘em out here mighty fast,” said Dr. Howard, taking his place at his favorite leather chair. He sank in with a sigh, adjusting his glasses as he put the lamp down on the coffee table. “Heck’s-that’s Mrs. Howard’s-gallbladder operation didn’t go quite right. Scar got infected, and we had to go outta’ town a couple times. Her lungs ain’t doin’ much better, probably on account of the anesthesia in her weak condition. Lotsa folk get pneumonia, as you know.

“Now, I do that pranayama bit, myself, for clearing out the lungs and brain, but Heck ain’t one for Hindoo mumbo jumbo and such. Her lungs been getting steadily worse, even with my magnetic-healin’ treatments I give her when she’s asleep.”

“Father,” said Howard, “I don’t think my friend needs to hear—”

“Just hold your hoss there. I heard everythin’ you two been sayin’ all evening and now Mr. Lovecraft here can listen to my voice for a kindly moment or two.” He turned to Lovecraft, his blue eyes flashing even in the dim light. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“I suppose it is only polite to reciprocate your hospitality by lending an ear.”

“Couldn’ta said it better myself.” Dr. Howard exchanged glances with his son before he went on. “Now, from what I heard, Mr. Lovecraft here said this Artifact of his might have some healin’ powers. Just now I heard the two of you sayin somethin’ about electricity. The way I reckon it from my perusal of that Artifact, I would say it’s got some thin to do with that force the Hindoo call fohat. Some kinda magnetic thing that could be healthful for you or detrimental.”

“He saw the Artifact?” said Howard, turning to Lovecraft.

“While you were out.”

“Why didn’t ya tell me?”

“There was no occasion, and I didn’t think it entirely relevant.”

“So I seen it!” said Dr. Howard. “And let me tell you, boy, it’s some’ infernal machine. Take the likes of Edison or the madman Tesla to figure it out scientifically. But your friend here seems to know something about it already, if those whoppers he tells in that magazine of yours are even half-true. So what’s the harm in humorin’ him a little while, eh? Ain’t nothin’ you can do here for your mother’s health. Yer taxin’ her with all that attention she pays ya.”

“I don’t appreciate you meddling in business that’s not yours, Father.” Howard held his face in one hand; Lovecraft could see his jaw tensing and relaxing.

“Bobby,” said Dr. Howard, “it’s about time we admitted what was what around here. You ain’t no doctor, son. Only God’s good graces is gonna make any difference now. Dammit, help your friend while you got a chance and do two good deeds insteada one.”

“You’re gangin’ up on me! You’re tryin’ to get me away from Ma!”

“I’ve a mind to flay your ornery ass and hang it out to dry!” said Dr. ‘

Howard. “Stop bein’ Heck’s little pansy boy and act like the man you should be, son!”

Lovecraft saw Howard’s eyes flash with a rage pent up for years, and although they shifted for only the barest instant to the .45 on the table, he knew that Howard could have murdered his father at that moment. He saw Howard’s right hand flex open, as if in a spasm, before he clutched it into a white-knuckled fist and smashed it so hard on the table that the oak split from end to end and the pistol fell to the floor, its hammer clicking hard on an empty chamber. When Howard looked from the gun to his father again, the rage was gone from his eyes, and the elder Howard grimaced, half in relief and half in contempt, before he turned his back and walked away into his wife’s bedroom.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Lovecraft.

“The hell you are.”

“I was most earnest with you, Bob.” Lovecraft saw there were tears in Howard’s eyes, but out of respect for his friend, he pretended not to notice.

THE LATE NIGHT drew on without excitement; even the weather lost its strange fury. Dr. Howard said his good nights and retired, leaving his son and Lovecraft in the living room, where they talked of less charged matters for a while, reminiscing about past issues of Weird Tales, planning overlapping stories, and dreaming of their great future works as if the evening had been a long-anticipated social engagement and not the inauspicious beginnings of a troubled adventure.

It was near sunrise by the time they were done chatting, and the faintest touch of sun was beginning to bum away the gray false dawn in the east. The odd incidents of the night seemed now to be a mere series of coincidences, though the artifact remained to remind them of more dire things.

“I’ll go with you,” Howard said, finally. It had been clear that he would come around to agreeing, but for him, forcing the words out of himself was another matter.

“I am delighted, relieved, and honored,” said Lovecraft. “You do not realize the great favor you are doing me.”

“It ain’t no favor,” said Howard. “Come on, we gotta pack up and hit the road before it gets too hot.” He excused himself momentarily and went back to his mother’s room.

Lovecraft could hear the muted inflections of an argument, or at least a sad leave-taking. Howard did not come directly back out to the living room, but went outside, where he seemed to be loading his car.

In his twilight state of consciousness, Lovecraft closed his eyes and listened to the thumping of the car doors, the creak of the garage, the muffled sounds of Howard swearing. He heard the heavy sound of Howard’s footsteps on the porch, the scrape of the front door, more footsteps, silence.

“HP?”