Suddenly, in the midst of the melee, Peter was sure that his sweat-stinging eyes glimpsed the impossible visage of Metellus, his livid gash gaping. But the gross wound did nothing to impede his prowess with the machete. He hacked and hacked without the fatigue of the living. Dead, he had himself become the Grim Reaper. But he did not fight alone. Like a gang of laborers chopping down jungle growth to clear a field or the path for a road, there was a whole crew of forms wielding knives, clubs, machetes. All silent. None of their faces was visible given the bad lighting. But the nearest one seemed incongruously to be sporting a top hat and sunglasses over a gaunt form one would not have thought sturdy enough to inflict the blows he was dealing.
The bocors and cult priests, taken by surprise, began to rally. They had no earthly weapons, but Peter could see their hands and arms flailing as if they bore deadly cudgel and sword. He knew they must be conjuring. It looked like superstitious pantomime, but Peter could tell something was happening because of what he heard, or thought he heard. He seemed to catch the echoes of explosions without the explosions themselves. Aftershocks of invisible eruptions. Something was occurring on a plane he could not see. But whatever it was, it had little effect on the invaders. One or two seemed to vanish, not to fall smitten, but just to disappear. But then perhaps they were leaving of their own accord now that the massacre was near its end. In the hacking fury of Metellus’s vengeance, with the aid of his mysterious hosts, tattooed heads flew like coconuts in a windstorm. Blood rained down, and Peter found himself spitting it out as he could not prevent a good deal of it entering his nose and mouth. Indeed, there seemed a red fog which made him gag and cough till he thought his lungs would burst.
He made for the edge of the clearing, where he could see the terrified yet curious young faces following the whole ghastly business. Their eyes grew even wider, if possible, as he approached, a wild and terrifying sight, he knew. But once he was upon them, and they kept looking past him, he knew another was the object of their gaze, and he turned to face it. It was Metellus. He gave a look to his dripping machete and cast it away, into the trees. He extended an arm toward Peter, but when the latter made a move to join him, Metellus waved him off. He tried to say something, but there was no sound, and Peter could not read his lips. He knew it was a final parting gesture, though. And then there was no one.
Peter’s ears felt the pressure of sudden and total silence. None of the adults could have survived. But neither were their conquerors anywhere to be seen. Yet he knew where they were: wherever Metellus was. The true loa had taken their revenge, and Metellus had shared in it. As for him, Peter knew what he must do next. He would round up the newly orphaned children of the village and, with them in tow, begin the long journey back down the mountainside to the cottage. A few could return with him to town in the Jeep; the rest could be picked up by the authorities. He hoped they could all find homes, and anything would have to be an improvement.
He paused for a moment, looking in the direction of his hut. His papers and notes were there, even a tape recording or two. His book, yet unwritten, was there. His career was there. But now who would believe any of it? The myths and rituals of a small community—now all dead in a massacre? A massacre he alone had survived? How would any of that look? He turned his back on the village, counted the children, and started for the foot path.
THE JEWELS OF CHARLOTTE
BY DUANE RIMEL
“YOU WILL PERHAPS QUESTION MY STORY OF INCIDENTS which occurred in the mouldering old town, but I think they will be of interest nonetheless.” Constantine Theunis leaned back in his chair luxuriously.
We were seated in his elaborate parlor before a crackling fireplace blaze. The lights were extinguished, and a chill autumn wind howled eerily about the house, giving a threat of snow. But the flickering shadows and austere atmosphere were secondary to Theunis himself. Lighting his pipe, he gazed steadily at the roaring flames, clearly deep in thought. He had asked me over to hear a story of some sort—the exact nature of which he had not yet explained.
“You remember my vacation in July, Single?”
“Of course,” I replied, recalling that the old town he spoke of must be Hampdon, where he had for a week visited in search of solitude and antiques.
“While there, a peculiar train of events occurred which I’ve been keeping quiet all this time. Two federal agents, a sheriff and myself were the only ones who dug into the whole thing—they from duty and I from curiosity; and we found—but first I must go back a bit.
“As you know, Hampdon is a most curious mixture of the new and the old; that being one reason for my sojourn there. It is an isolated place, stuck down between forbidding hills and inhabited by natives who believe every bit of gossip that comes to their ears. They do not exactly welcome strangers, and my arrival at the hotel was not a very pleasant occasion. But I wished to look over some of the stone carvings near the village and explore a bit in the nearby caverns. For five days I had a splendid time, absorbing an abundance of good mountain air, peering into the hillside caverns and soaking in some local gossip as well. On every hand I heard mutterings of varied description, subdued whispers which seemed to occupy the whole time of the village wits and loafers. My efforts to persuade some of them to confide in me met with failure—in fact, at times, they appeared to resent even my presence. The landlord was noticeably sullen, and never seemed to care whether the meals were served or not.
“Finally I found that most of their everlasting mutterings centered about some sort of fabulous gems known as the jewels of Charlotte. Nothing more concerning them, however, reached my ears. It was amusing to watch how a group of villagers would suddenly cease their talking at my approach. Toward the last I grew more and more inquisitive about the strange gems and longed for someone to whom I could at least venture my opinions; for my interest had gradually shifted from the dark hillside caverns to the disjointed jargon of the miserable townspeople.
“Imagine my surprise when, on the sixth day, upon entering my hotel, I found two responsible-looking gentlemen whom I had met several times in Croyden. They were the agents I spoke of. We exchanged greetings, they seeming as pleased as I to find an acquaintance among these surroundings. They had parked their car in the rear, and I had not seen it in approaching the place. Luckily, they had arranged for a room adjoining mine.
“We immediately became confidential—that is, so far as their professions would allow. I knew that a man-hunt or something equally important was brewing, since two seemed so large a force for so small a hamlet. They had not confided in anyone but the county sheriff, they said, and explained that their purpose must not leak out.
“Both men were about forty; the eldest, Sargent, doing the most talking. His companion, Roberts, seemed less inclined to speak. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and I doubt if any villager suspected their true identities or purpose. It was only by chance that I learned of their mission at all, and this chance led up to the most unexplainable jumble I’ve ever run into. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
“At dinner that evening the two were strangely quiet. At the same table sat a rough-looking individual whom I took to be the sheriff. I was seated in one corner partaking slowly of the meal placed in front of me by the disheveled waiter. The three had not ordered. An unaccountable tenseness reigned over the room. The other occupants went on about their business. A window close by was open, and the distant croaking of frogs came faintly to my ears. The two agents half-faced me while the sheriff was turned squarely in the opposite direction. I bring out these details in view of what subsequently happened. As I said, the frogs were chorusing and the air seemed loaded with an unknown, malign quality.