Рэй Брэдбери: The Wind

The phone rang at five-thirty that evening. It was December, and long since dark as Thompson picked up the phone.

«Hello.»

«Hello, _Herb?_»

«Oh, it's you, Allin.»

«Is your wife home, Herb?»

«Sure. Why?»

«Damn it.»

Herb Thompson held the receiver quietly. «What's up? You sound funny.»

«I wanted you to come over tonight.»

«We're having company.»

«I wanted you to spend the night. When's your wife going away?»

«That's next week,» said Thompson. «She'll be in Ohio for about nine days. Her mother's sick. I'll come over then.»

«I wish you could come over tonight.»

«Wish I could. Company and all, my wife'd kill me.»

«I wish you could come over.»

«What's it? the wind again?»

«Oh, no. No.»

«Is it the wind?» asked Thompson.

The voice on the phone hesitated. «Yeah. Yeah, it's the wind.»

«It's a clear night, there's not much wind.»

«There's enough. It comes in the window and blows the curtains a little bit. Just enough to tell me.»

«Look, why don't you come and spend the night here?» said Herb Thompson looking around the lighted halt.

«Oh, no. It's too late for that. It might catch me on the way over. It's a damned long distance. I wouldn't dare, but thanks, anyway. It's thirty miles, but thanks.»

«Take a sleeping-tablet.»

«I've been standing in the door for the past hour, Herb. I can see it building up in the west. There are some clouds there and I saw one of them kind of rip apart. There's a wind coming, all right.»

«Well, you just take a nice sleeping-tablet. And call me any time you want to call. Later this evening if you want.»

«Any time?» said the voice on the phone.

«Sure.»

«I'll do that, but I wish you could come out. Yet I wouldn't want you hurt. You're my best friend and I wouldn't want that. Maybe it's best I face this thing alone. I'm sorry I bothered you.»

«Hell, what's a friend for? Tell you what you do, sit down and get some writing done this evening,» said Herb Thompson, shifting from one foot to the other in the hall. «You'll forget about the Himalayas and the Valley of the Winds and this preoccupation of yours with storms and hurricanes. Get another chapter done on your next travel book.»

«I might do that. Maybe I will, I don't know. Maybe I will. I might do that. Thanks a lot for letting me bother you.»

«Thanks, hell. Get off the line, now, you. My wife's calling me to dinner.»

Herb Thompson hung up.

He went and sat down at the supper table and his wife sat across from him. «Was that Allin?» she asked. He nodded. «Him and his winds that blow up and winds that blow down and winds that blow hot and blow cold,» she said, handing him his plate heaped with food.

«He did have a time in the Himalayas, during the war,» said Herb Thompson.

«You don't believe what he said about that valley, do you?»

«It makes a good story.»

«Climbing around, climbing up things. Why do men climb mountains and scare themselves?»

«It was snowing,» said Herb Thompson.

«Was it?»

«And raining and hailing and blowing all at once, in that valley. Allin's told me a dozen times. He tells it well. He was up pretty high. Clouds, and all. The valley made a noise.»

«I _bet_ it did,» she said.

«Like a lot of winds instead of just one. Winds from all over the world.» He took a bite. «So says Allin.»

«He shouldn't have gone there and looked, in the first place,» she said. «You go poking around and first thing you know you get ideas. Winds start getting angry at you for intruding, and they follow you.»

«Don't joke, he's my best friend,» snapped Herb Thompson.

«It's all so silly!»

«Nevertheless he's been through a lot. That storm in Bombay, later, and the typhoon off New Guinea two months after that. And that time, in Cornwall.»

«I have no sympathy for a man who continually runs into wind storms and hurricanes, and then gets a persecution complex because of it.»

The phone rang just then.

«Don't answer it,» she said.

«Maybe it's important.»

«It's only Allin, again.»

They sat there and the phone rang nine times and they didn't answer. Finally, it quieted. They finished dinner. Out in the kitchen, the window curtains gently moved in the small breeze from a slightly opened window.

The phone rang again.

«I can't let it ring,» he said, and answered it. «Oh, hello, Allin.»

«Herb! It's here! It got here!»

«You're too near the phone, back up a little.»

«I stood in the open door and waited for it. I saw it coming down the highway, shaking all the trees, one by one, until it shook the trees just outside the house and it dived down toward the door and I slammed the door in its face!»

Thompson didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything to say, his wife was watching him in the hail door.

«How interesting,» he said, at last.

«It's all around the house, Herb. I can't get out now, I can't do anything. But I fooled it, I let it think it had me, and just as it came down to get me I slammed and locked the door! I was ready for it, I've been getting ready for weeks.»

«Have you, now; tell me about it, Allin, old man.» Herb Thompson played it jovially into the phone, while his wife looked on and his neck began to sweat.

«It began six weeks ago….»

«Oh, yes? Well, well.»

«… I thought I had it licked. I thought it had given up following and trying to get me. But it was just waiting. Six weeks ago I heard the wind laughing and whispering around the corners of my house, out here. Just for an hour or so, not very long, not very loud. Then it went away.»

Thompson nodded into the phone. «Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.» His wife stared at him.

«It came back, the next night. It slammed the shutters and kicked sparks out of the chimney. It came back five nights in a row, a little stronger each time. When I opened the front door, it came in at me and tried to pull me out, but it wasn't strong enough. Tonight it _is_.»

«Glad to hear you're feeling better,» said Thompson.

«I'm not better, what's wrong with you? Is your wife listening to us?»

«Yes.»

«Oh, I see. I know I sound like a fool.»

«Not at all. Go on.»

Thompson's wife went back into the kitchen. He relaxed. He sat down on a little chair near the phone. «Go on, Allin, get it out of you, you'll sleep better.»

«It's all around the house now, like a great big vacuum machine nuzzling at all the gables. It's knocking the trees around.»

«That's funny, there's no wind _here_, Allin.»

«Of course not, it doesn't care about you, only about me.»

«I guess that's one way to explain it.»

«It's a killer, Herb, the biggest damnedest prehistoric killer that ever hunted prey. A big sniffling hound, trying to smell me out, find me. It pushes its big cold nose up to the house, taking air, and when it finds me in the parlor it drives its pressure there, and when I'm in the kitchen it goes there. It's trying to get in the windows, now, but I had them reinforced and I put new hinges on the doors, and bolts. It's a strong house. They built them strong in the old days. I've got all the lights in the house on, now. The house is all lighted up, bright. The wind followed me from room to room, looking through all the windows, when I switched them on. Oh!»

«What's wrong?»

«It just snatched off the front screen door!»

«I wish you'd come over here and spend the night, Allin.»

«I can't! God, I can't leave the house. I can't do anything. I know this wind. Lord, it's big and it's clever. I tried to light a cigarette a moment ago, and a little draft sucked the match out. The wind likes to play games, it likes to taunt me, it's taking its time with me; it's got all night. And now! God, right now, one of my old travel books, on the library table, I wish you could see it. A little breeze from God knows what small hole in the house, the little breeze is- blowing the pages one by one. I wish you could see it. There's my introduction. Do you remember the introduction to my book on Tibet, Herb?»