The Last Ritual Page 6

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people. It’s rude,” she said.

  “I wasn’t sneaking.”

  “Well, creeping then,” she said.

  Her eyes were nut brown, so too was her hair, and both looked dark under her hat. She lifted her chin to see all of me, and she couldn’t help but appear haughty and annoyed as she peered down her nose. At her full height, she stood a good two inches taller than I did.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention to surprise you.”

  “Why are you poking around at the back end of this church?”

  “Why are you?”

  With narrow eyes, we stared at each other.

  She went first. “I came to inspect the scene of a man’s death.”

  “I did as well,” I said.

  Our exchange led to another round of staring.

  This time I broke the silence. “I read about it in the Advertiser. I was curious.”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I knew him,” she said, with the faintest hint of superiority.

  “You knew him! I’m so sorry. I feel terrible for you.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know him well. We were acquaintances. We said hello when we passed each other in the mornings. He was dedicated to his work at the church.” She gestured toward the building.

  I looked up, and here I did see gargoyles hunched like stone raptors on the corners of the structure. My mind made quick calculations, and yes, a plunge from that height would most likely be fatal. My stomach flipped in a sympathetic sensation of falling.

  “Was he a religious man?” I asked.

  “I should think not,” she said. A smile curled one side of her mouth. “Art was his religion, I think. We never talked about philosophies. As I said, we were acquaintances.”

  “I am much the same.”

  “An acquaintance?” She frowned and cocked her head to one side.

  “An artist… a painter.” I made an embarrassing flourish with an invisible brush.

  “Oh,” she said. Her lips were dark red. I wanted her to talk to me more.

  “How about you? Are you an artist?” I asked.

  She looked away. “No, I write here and there. Bits of things. Small pieces…”

  “Writing is an art.”

  “Not the way I do it. At least that’s what I’m told. Mostly by men,” she said.

  “You can’t always listen to what others tell you. Especially men. They are weak creatures. Believe me, I know. I’m one myself. There’s little we understand. Only we can’t let on how lacking we are, or others of our kind will attack us. Listen to your muse, I say.”

  “That sounds ancient and fantastical.”

  “Like gargoyles?” I pointed to the rooftop.

  “Like the Greeks.”

  “Oh, them,” I said. “Do you have something in your hand?”

  “I might,” she said.

  “I know you do. I saw it when I snatched your wrist. A stone, maybe? Is it a clue?”

  “A clue to what exactly?”

  I shrugged.

  She opened her palm and showed me a limestone cone, pitted and rough-looking.

  “Gargoyle horn,” she said. “See how it’s sharp and whiter on this side…” She touched the thick end with her fingernail.

  “It’s broken off from the one up there, do you think?” I squinted, trying to focus on the rooftop gargoyle. He looked older and dirtier than the church he sat upon.

  “Courtland must have grabbed hold of it before he fell,” she said.

  “You found it where?”

  “In these leaves.” She gave the pile a soft kick. “I guessed this was where he landed. Bang! He hits the walk. His hand relaxes. Opens. The horn rolls away. Or he lets go as he’s falling. Anyway, the horn doesn’t get very far. The detectives missed it, I didn’t.”

  “What makes you say he landed right here?”

  She walked in a semicircle. “Look, there’s dried blood between the cobblestones.”

  She crouched while I kneeled. She’s a cool one, I thought, poring over the details. Maybe she wants to be a crime reporter. It takes a certain detachment if that’s your beat.

  “I think this was his head. Feet off that way. Arms out like this.” She showed me how. It looked like she was praying, supplicating to an ancient demigod. We were close. I felt her breath brush past me. It was chilly outside, but I felt warm. “That has to be his blood. They scrubbed the stones but not in between. You can see dried soap bubbles where it drained off in the mud.”

  It hurt me to look at her, but I didn’t know why. Maybe there was too much to take in all at once, an urgency to soak everything up so I’d never forget.

  “Don’t you think that’s blood?” she said.

  There was rusty purplish black residue gummed into the cracks. It made me queasy to think how much liquid probably leaked out of the man. Had he died instantly? I wondered. Or did he lay here watching it all go running out of him like beer from a shattered bottle, the foam of his life escaping as he hissed? I shivered. “I don’t know what dried blood looks like.”

  “It looks like that.” She got up.

  I followed her lead, dusting off the knees of my trousers.

  “Why are you here collecting horns and thinking about death on this autumn day?”

  “Boys aren’t the only ones who get to be curious. Girls want to know too. I could ask you the same thing. In fact, I will. Why are you here? Do you like sneaking up on people?”

  “I told you, I wasn’t sneaking. I was out walking. I don’t know what drew me here, to be honest. What are you going to do with that horn?”

  She studied it. Rolling it contemplatively between her hands. “I think I’ll keep it.”

  “Shouldn’t the police have it?”

  “Why? They’re the ones who left it here. There isn’t even a crime according to them.”

  “Are you interested in crimes?”

  She stepped back and studied me. “What if I were?”

  I shrugged. “Everyone has a passion. It’s spooky… that horn. You’re keeping it?”

  “Yes,” she said, defiantly.

  “A sort of lucky charm?”

  “Some luck it brought to Courtland. I think it will be a reminder to me, a warning.”

  “Warning about what?”

  She thought for a moment. “Be careful of what you grab.” She put the horn in her pocket and started to turn away. I was afraid she was leaving.

  “Listen, I like talking to you. I passed a diner back there about a block. If you’ve got the time, maybe we could get a coffee and talk some more?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m late for an appointment. I only meant to stop here for a moment.” She was backing away from me, a little suspicious but smiling. Not afraid.

  “How do I know we’ll meet again?”

  “Arkham is a small place. I’m surprised how often people and things… overlap.” She opened her eyes big, as if she’d said something mildly shocking and was trying not to laugh. I wanted to hear what her laugh sounded like. “Goodbye,” she said.

  She waved to me.

  “Goodbye.”

  She walked briskly around the corner. I hadn’t asked her name or told her mine.

  I ran after her but I was too late.

  The South Church’s side lot was empty except for blowing leaves and crooked trees.

  Chapter Seven

  “Roland, there’s a goblin in the bushes.” Mother twitched the drapery. “Roland!”

  Turning from the window, she surveyed my costume as I reached the bottom of the staircase. “What are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Pagliacci.” I modeled my baggy shirt with its giant, ruffled black collar and pompon buttons, and the sad, droopy spect
acle of my pants. My long hat might’ve doubled for a chef’s pastry bag.

  Mother’s face remained blank. “The clown? From the opera? But you can’t sing.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s a costume party, not a singing competition.”

  Roland materialized from wherever he went when we didn’t need him.

  “Ma’am, you summoned me?”

  “Dispose of those trick-or-treaters.” Mother ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Roland picked up a wicker handbasket full of Abba-Zaba bars from the end table and went to the door to pass out the Halloween candy.

  “It’s only one day a year,” I reminded my mother.

  “One day too many. What a nuisance! Youths trudging onto the property like vandals. We feed them for free! It’s not civilized. But people will talk if we don’t answer our door.”

  Mother adjusted my pompons, checking on me like one of her African violets.

  “Found a new home yet?” she asked.

  “No.” I sighed.

  “Have you looked in Uptown? It’s where all the Miskatonic U students live.”

  “I know where they live. And I’m not a student any more.”

  “Of course not, dear. Don’t snap, I’m only trying to help,” she said.

  I caught sight of myself in the vestibule mirror. I’d painted my face with greasepaint, only using white except for the twin blackened pits of my eyes. A sad clown, indeed.

  “Where is this party you’re going to?”

  “At the observatory. Preston and Minnie’s engagement party? I told you about it.”

  “See! You should find a place to live near Miskatonic, Aldie. Ask around. Preston might know of the perfect property for a bachelor. His family has more connections than the New York subway.” She stepped back to assess me. “There! You look quite operatic.”

  Another flurry of low-level knocks jarred Oakwood’s stately door.

  “Roland!”

  Mother’s expression softened. She squeezed my fingers briefly, and then let go.

  “I wish only the best for you, my little Pagliacci.”

  “I know you do.” In her own distant and cultivating way, she cared about me.

  “Enjoy the party!”

  •••

  Preston and Minnie’s engagement soiree would, of course, have to be a costume party. They’d rented out the Gerald Warren Astronomical Observatory on the Miskatonic University campus. I’m sure everybody thought it was strange when they got their invitations. The observatory wasn’t open to rentals as far as I knew, but like my mother said, the Fairmonts had connections. Fairmont dollars flowed into the Miskatonic coffers, and they could party wherever they wanted. Tradition said that rules didn’t apply to the Fairmonts, or people like them in Arkham. I knew that it was true because I was one of those people.

  I had the cab driver drop me off on the edge of campus. I didn’t want to wait in a long line of cars and partygoers making a big show of their entrance. Not really my style. I’d rather come in on foot, at my own pace, and get a look around before I went in. This used to be my crowd. Now I hesitated, wondering if we’d outgrown each other while I was away.

  I was late, of course. The party had already exceeded the confines of the observatory. The untrimmed, but mostly dead, grassy yard behind the small building was filled with ghouls and witches in pointy hats sipping bourbon-spiked punch. A live jazz band played “You’d Be Surprised!” and the singer did a good imitation of Eddie Cantor’s jokey, nasal delivery. Orange glowing tips of cigars and cigarettes bobbed in the shadows under the arching warlock limbs of the black cherry trees which spread wide, as if to welcome them. A cherry sweetness tinged the air. It mingled with smoke from a bonfire burning in a rough stone circle near the back of the property, where demons paired off with ghosts or a menagerie of animals, real and fantastical, for more private assignations. I would not be the only clown in attendance at tonight’s festivities. My costume choice proved to be popular with both sexes. But I was the only Pagliacci. I smoked a cigarette and came in through the back door. My throat was parched, and I needed something to keep my hands from hanging idly at my sides. The punch bowl was out of glasses, but I found an abandoned one on top of a bookcase, wiped it with my sleeve, and filled it.

  I couldn’t spot Preston or Minnie. Arkham hadn’t been my stomping ground for a couple of years, but I was shocked at how few people I recognized. I chalked some of it up to their clever disguises, but I knew it was more than that. I’d been out of circulation for too long. The social turnover in Arkham wasn’t what it was in Boston or New York, but my current state of dislocation had me feeling suddenly old and, like Pagliacci I suppose, more than a bit confused.

  The band announced they were taking a break for a few minutes. They reminded everyone about the banquet laid out in the hallway. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I had nothing better to do, so I checked out the hors d’oeuvres.

  The revelers weren’t interested in eating. I found myself alone in the hallway, poring over deviled eggs, tomato aspics, skewered meatballs, crudités, oysters swimming in a pond of melting ice, fruit salad, stuffed mushroom caps, and shrimp cocktails with most of the big crustaceans picked out. I grabbed a handful of roasted mixed nuts and was crunching them when an old man with a long Whitmanesque beard emerged from the stairway.

  He eyed the table with curiosity.

  My mouth was full, so I greeted him with a nod.

  “My wife, Bernadine, used to say that if you put out a spread of food and scientists are anywhere around, they will soon discover it. I don’t like parties. But it seems this gathering has moved on. All these leftovers will go to waste, won’t they? That is a terrible shame,” he said.

  I’d finished chewing. “Go ahead. Fill up a plate. My friends paid for this fête, and they won’t mind. There’s plenty. Most of them are too busy drinking.”

  The old gent was surprised by my offer. “Thank you. My wife said I never eat enough when I’m here. ‘Head in the stars,’ she told me. I get caught up in my work and forget.”

  I reached for more nuts. Although the hallway was empty, the observatory felt horribly warm from all the bodies bustling through. I saw why people had drifted outside.

  “Doesn’t your wife want you home for dinner?”

  The bearded fellow smiled sadly. “Not any more.”

  “Given up, has she?” I asked, jokingly.

  “No, she died.”

  Now I felt stupid and awkward, wishing I’d skipped the nuts and followed the others into the backyard. “Please forgive me,” I said. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “Not to worry.” The scientist went on filling his plate. “I’d rather talk about her than forget how lucky I was. Norman Withers.” He held out his hand. “I work upstairs.”

  “On the big telescope?” I asked, feeling less embarrassed, as we shook.

  Norman nodded. “In the lab, too. That’s where the real discoveries are made. Reviewing the data. Deducing what the numbers mean. Even so, sometimes I see things I wish I had not.”

  “Like what?”

  I was intrigued. I drained my glass of punch, wishing I had more.

  “Oh, lately there have been gaps… perturbations… unexpected deviations.”

  “Sounds almost spooky when you put it like that.”

  “The universe is mysterious,” he said. “Yet, based on years of research, we know where certain objects are. We can predict their locations. Map them out. They appear and reappear like clockwork. But when I look up and they’re not all there…”

  I had a feeling that maybe the professor might not be “all there” either. But he seemed nice enough, if more than a little lonely. I’d never had much interest in the sciences, but I liked unexplained mysteries.

  He leaned against the wall and devoured a deviled egg.

&nbs
p; “Couldn’t it just be a mistake?”

  “A hiccup in the data?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Yes, it’s theoretically possible. I’ve gone over the measurements, recalibrated my equipment… There’s nothing wrong with the telescope. But one too many hiccups…”

  “Perhaps you should try holding your breath?” I kidded.

  “I wish it were that simple.” Norman finished eating his food. He took a second pass at the banquet table and reloaded his plate.

  A server came by with a pitcher of the “holiday” punch and poured me another glass. I happened to glance out the back door and spotted Preston waving for me to join him. I was ready to say goodnight to the astronomer when he spoke up again.

  “This fellow, Hubble, has argued an earthshattering theory, pardon the pun. Those swirling clouds of dust and gases we call nebulae are, in fact, distant galaxies. The Milky Way is but an eddy in a constant whirlwind. We’re spinning like a hurricane on a vast, dark ocean among a staggering number of other hurricanes. Churning, round and round. Our sun, worshipped for millennia and over which gallons of sacrificial blood have been spilled, is but a dingy, minor star. You see, the cosmos is a frightfully bigger place than we ever thought.”

  “And we humans are…”

  “Living on a speck of grit,” he said.

  Feeling small, slightly dizzy, and apparently insignificant – I gulped my punch.

  Norman was obviously a learned man, but in that moment he had the wild, glassy eyes of an asylum patient. Exhausted, haunted. And I’d be lying if I said he hadn’t scared me.

  The piano player started playing “Fascinating Rhythm.”

  I tried to find a silver lining. “Life may be Earth’s only claim at uniqueness,” I said.

  The musicians played louder. People were rushing back inside to see the band.

  “What if it’s not?” Norman said, “What if life is not unique? Who knows the immense sizes and irrational shapes our ‘neighbors’ might take? They may be our competitors or even our enemies. How will they deal with us when they arrive? We could be at their mercy.”

  A bowlegged man dressed as a faun, complete with panpipes, leapt up onto the band platform. He planted a pair of fake deer antlers on the piano player. The faun slyly pranced away. It was all in the intoxicating mood of chaotic good fun. The crowd loved it. Not missing a beat, the piano player sang: