Tom lay hidden in a clump of withered brush, listening. He cocked his head. The caterwauling sound frightened him. But not as much as the faint streaks of yellow light that seeped through a window hung with sacking and through the cracks in a crooked door.
He knew what danger that could mean.
But something else drew him inexorably to the place. A smell of food that drifted toward him from a bent pipe protruding from the roof of the shed.
Stealthily, overcoming his fear, he crept closer.
The tinny music blared lustily from the old wind-up phonograph, filled the cluttered little room with noise and washed over the ancient things that crowded it. The place was lit by a couple of kerosene lamps. On a pot-bellied stove a large stew pan of meat soup simmered, aromatic steam rising from it and drifting out through a vent in the ceiling. A massive wooden bunk heaped with crumpled blankets filled one end of the room; several crates and boxes served to hold a weird array of collected “art”—oddly gnarled, sun-bleached cactus skeletons and shrubbery trunks, curiously shaped rocks and a few yellowed coyote, bobcat and burro craniums.
Exuberantly keeping time with a big spoon, an old man sat at a crude table. Sparsely white-haired and white-bearded, clad in a faded red cotton shirt, patched trousers and broad suspenders, he would have looked decidedly anachronistic except where he was. His age could be between eighty and a hundred and eighty. It was impossible to tell.
At his feet an ancient dog, skinny and shaggy, lay fast asleep.
The old man — known to those who were aware of his existence at all as Op'ry Olaf, the crazy hermit — sang along with the raspy voice on the scratched old recording.
Incongruously it was the Smithy Song from Wagner's opera Siegfried. Old Olaf was alternately either half a tone sharp or flat. But he enjoyed himself no less.
On the wall behind him was tacked up what was obviously one of his treasures: a faded and age-grimed poster from the New York Metropolitan Opera, dated March 10, 1926. A performance of Siegfried, conducted by Artur Bodanzky and with such illustrious bygone opera names as Friedrich Schorr and Mesdames Schumann-Heink and Larsen-Todsen among the long-forgotten cast, and marking the debut in the role of Siegfried of a new tenor named Lauritz Melchior.
The old phonograph started to run down. Not until it had almost stopped did Olaf notice. Annoyed, be got up.
“Dang-blasted contraption,” he grumbled. “Never can trust them new-fangled gadgets.”
He started to wind the handle. Suddenly there was a noise from outside. A can or metal object falling over. Olaf cocked an ear.
“Hear that, Siegfried?” He looked at the sleeping dog. The creature didn't stir.
“Siegfried!” Olaf shouted. “Siegfried!”
The dog showed no reaction whatsoever, only snored wheezily.
Olaf nudged him with his foot. “Get up!” he grumbled. The dog struggled to sit up. “You're getting as deaf as a doorpost, you old coyote.”
Olaf rummaged up an old pan and broke some stale bread crusts into it. He kept up a steady conversation with the deaf dog.
“Mehitabel's out there. Come off her mountain to pay us a visit again. Smartest little ol’ burro I ever knowed, and that's a true fact. Likes Wagner, too… ‘Ho, Ho! Ho, Ho! Ho, Hei!’ “he bellowed.
He cackled. “Allus makes her come running, you bet.”
He poured a little water over the bread. “Come on, Siegfried.”
The dog didn't hear him.
“Siegfried!” The old man threw the spoon at the dog. Siegfried inspected it with mild interest — and struggled to his feet.
“Hell's bells, dog,” Olaf complained. “Get that ol’ bag o’ bones rattling. You got nothin’ else to do.”
He-started for the door.
The opening door sent a sudden shaft of yellow light spilling out into the darkness.
Tom was almost caught in it. Terrified, he leaped back into the deep shadows of the lean-to that protected the doorway, where a stack of rusty kerosene cans had been heaped. He pressed into the darkness.
Olaf put the pan of food on the ground outside the door. He peered out into the desert.
“Where's that critter at?” he asked of no one. “Where is that mangy mote?” He turned to the dog. “You see her, old boy?”
Siegfried nosed the pan of water-soaked bread crusts with obvious disinterest. He managed to wag his tail a couple of times. He sniffed the air tentatively — and slowly, stiff-legged, he ambled over toward the pile of kerosene cans.
Panic gripped Tom. He was trapped. Any moment he expected the roaring blast that came with the yellow light — and hurt. The only way out was directly toward the strange, incomprehensible creatures that always followed the monsters that pursued him.
The smaller one was almost upon him. He leaped from behind the cans, sending them tumbling with an ear-shattering clatter. He burst from his hiding place and lunged past the dumfounded Olaf into the darkness. Siegfried gave a startled yelp and fled, tail between his legs, into the shack.
Olaf stared into the blackness surrounding his hut. He scratched his beard.
“Jumping Jehosaphat!” he mumbled. “Did you see her hotfoot it outa here? Quicker'n hell could scorch a leather.” He shook his head in wonder. “I never before need that old donkey act like a dad-blasted jackass.”
He went back into the shack, leaving the pan behind.
Swimming in it were the several crusts of water-soaked bread.
Tom slowed down His heart pounded. He had escaped. But his enemies had been so close to him that he could smell the sour smell of them.
Something nagged at him. The frightening creatures that hunted him were like the one that was with him. The same — yet different. He could smell that one, too, but the smell pleased him and he was not afraid. He would flee from the enemy monsters, but he wanted the one with him to stay. He had come to think of them together. Fleeing together. Seeking safety together. Finding food and drink together…
He looked back toward the frightening place where he had almost been caught. The strange, compelling sound once again rang out from it.
He turned away and moved out into the night desert. He knew now. Where the strange, fearful creatures were to be found — so was food.
He would have to find others.
And be more careful…
JEROME McCABE
Born April 4, 1851
Died July 12, 1897
May he find more rest
in death than he found
in life.
The weathered inscription on the chipped tombstone meant little to most — Jerome had been gone a long time. To Tom, crouched warily behind it, it meant nothing. The stone, one of several markers in the old cemetery outside the ghost town, was merely another stone to bide behind while he watched a flat, nearly empty area in front of him. A row of the tall, slender plants he'd seen before stretched across the little plain to disappear into the darkness, but these had no tops of swaying leaves. Only long, thin lines strung between them.
At the foot of one of them stood the objects of his vigilance. Two squat shapes — one larger, the other smaller. He knew them for what they were. Monsters. At rest. In the larger one he could see faint yellow light shine behind square holes, and a short distance in front of it a pool of light glowed on the ground. He shifted his position uneasily.