“He’s insane,” she ‘pointed out. “Right? He believes—”
“He believes,” Hal Barnes said, “that he’s Bruno Bluthgeld, isn’t that right?”
Bonny shrugged. “That, among other things.”
“And he is, isn’t he? And Stockstill knows it, you know it—that Negro knows it.”
“No,” she said, “that Negro doesn’t know it, and stop saying ‘that Negro.” His name is Stuart McConchie; I talked to Andrew about him and he says he’s a very fine, intelligent, enthusiastic and alive person.”
Barnes said, “So Doctor Bluthgeld didn’t die in the Emergency. He came here. He’s been ‘here, living among us. The man most responsible for what happened.”
“Go murder him,” Bonny said.
Barnes grunted.
“I mean it,” Bonny said. “I don’t care any more. Frankly I wish you would.” It would be a good manly act, she said to herself. It would be a distinct change.
“Why have you tried to shield a person like that?”
“I don’t know.” She did not care to discuss it. “Let’s go back to town,” she said. His company wearied her and she had begun to think once again about Stuart McConchie. “I’m out of cigarettes,” she said. “So you can drop me off at the cigarette factory.” She walked toward Barnes’ horse, which, tied to a tree, complacently cropped the long grass.
“A darky,” Barnes said, with bitterness. “Now you’re going to shack up with him. That certainly makes me feel swell.”
“Snob,” she said. “Anyhow, you’re afraid to go on; you want to quit. So the next time you see Edie you can truthgully say, ‘I am not doing anything shameful and evil with your mama, scout’s honor.’ Right?” She mounted the horse, picked up the reins and waited. “Come on, Hal.”
An explosion lit up the sky.
The horse bolted, and Bonny leaped from it, throwing herself from its side to roll, sliding, into the shrubbery of the oak forest. Bruno, she thought; can it be him really? She lay clasping her head, sobbing with pain; a branch had laid her scalp open and blood dripped through her fingers and ran down her wrist. Now Barnes bent over her; he tugged her up, turned her over. “Brunb,” she said. “Goddamn him. Somebody will have to kill him; they should have done it long ago—they should have done it in 1970 because he was insane then.” She got her handkerchief out and mopped at her scalp. “Oh dear,” she said. “I really am hurt. That was a real fall.”
“The horse is gone, too,”Barnes said.
“It’s an evil god,” she said, “who gave him that power, whatever it is. I know it’s him, Hal. We’ve seen a lot of strange things over the years, so why not this? The ability to re-create the war, to bring it back, like he said last night. Maybe he’s got us snared in time. Could that be it? We’re stuck fast; he’s—” She broke off as a second white flash broke overhead, traveling at enormous speed; the trees around them lashed and bent and she heard, here and there, the old oaks splinter.
“I wonder where the horse went,” Barnes murmured, rising cautiously to his feet and peering around.
“Forget the horse,” she said. “We’ll have to walk back; that’s obvious. Listen, Hal. Maybe Hoppy can do something; he has funny powers, too. I think we ought to go to him and tell him. He doesn’t want to be incinerated by a lunatic. Don’t you agree? I don’t see anything else we can do at this point.”
“That’s a good idea,” Barnes said, but he was still looking for the horse; he did not seem really to be listening.
“Our punishment,” Bonny said.
“What?” he murmured.
“You know. For what Edie calls our ‘shameful, evil doings.’ I thought the other night… maybe we should have been killed with the others; maybe it’s a good thing this is happening.”
“There’s the horse,” Barnes said, walking swiftly from her. The horse was caught; his reins had become tangled in a bay limb.
The sky, now, had become sooty black. She remembered that color; it had never entirely departed anyhow. It had merely lessened.
Our little fragile world, Bonny thought, that we labored to build up, after the Emergency . – . this puny society with out tattered school books, our “deluxe” cigarettes, our wood-burning trucks—it can’t stand much punishment; it can’t stand this that Bruno is doing or appears to be doing. One blow again directed at us and we will be gone; the brilliant animals will perish, all the new, odd species will disappear as suddenly as they arrived. Too bad, she thought with grief. It’s unfair; Terry, the verbose dog—him, too. Maybe we were too ambitious; maybe we shouldn’t have dared to try to rebuild and go on.
“I think we did pretty well, she thought, all in all. We’ve been alive; we’ve made love and drunk Gill’s Five Star, taught our kids in a peculiar-windowed school building, put out News & Views, cranked up a car radio and listened daily to W. Somerset Maugham. What more could be asked of us? Christ, she thought. It isn’t fair, this thing now. It isn’t right at all. We have our horses to protect, our crops, our lives…
Another explosion occurred, this time further off. To the south, she realized. Near the site of the old ones. San Francisco.
Wearily, she shut her eyes. And just when this McConchie has shown up, too, she thought. What lousy, stinking luck.
The dog, placing himself across the path, barring her way, groaned in his difficult voice, “Treezzz bizzzzeeeeee. Stopppppp.” He woofed in warning. She was not supposed to continue on to the wooden shack.
Yes, Edie thought, I know he’s busy. She had seen the explosions in the sky. “Hey, you know what?” she said to the dog.
“Whuuuuut?” the dog asked, becoming curious; he had a simple mind, as she well knew; he was easily taken in.
“I learned how to throw a stick so far nobody can find it,” she said. She bent, picked up a nearby stick. “Want me to prove it?”
Within her Bill said, “Who’re you talking to?” He was agitated, now that the time was drawing near. “Is it Mr. Tree?”
“No,” she said, “just the dog.” She waved the stick. “Bet you a paper ten dollar bill if I throw it you can’t find it.”
“Surrrrre I cannnnnn,” the dog said, and whined in eagerness; this was his favorite sort of sport. “Buuuut I cannnn’t bettttt,” he added. “I haaaaave no monnnnnneyyyy.”
From the wooden shack walked Mr. Tree, all at once; taken by surprise, both she and the dog stopped what they were doing. Mr. Tree paid no attention to them; he continued on up a small hill and then disappeared down the far side, out of sight.
“Mr. Tree!” Edie called. “Maybe he isn’t busy now,” she said to the dog. “Go ask him, okay? Tell him I want to talk to him a minute.”
Within her Bill said restlessly, “He’s not far off now, is he? I know he’s there. I’m ready; I’m going to try real hard this time. He can do almost anything, can’t he? See and walk and hear and smell—isn’t that right? It’s not like that worm.”
“He doesn’t have any teeth,” Edie said, “but he has everything else that most people have.” As the dog obediently loped off in pursuit of Mr. Tree she began walking along the path once more. “It won’t be long,” she said. “I’ll tell him—” She had it all worked out. “I’ll say, ‘Mr. Tree, you know what? Well, I swallowed one of those duckcallers hunters use, and if you lean close you can hear it.’ How’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Bill said desperately. “What’s a ‘duckcaller’? What’s a duck, Edie? Is it alive?” He sounded more and more confused, as if the situation were to much for him.
“You sissy,” she hissed. “Be quiet.” The dog had reached Tree and now ‘the man had turned; he was starting back toward her, frowning.