“Nod is where Cain went when he was banished,” said Smith. “East of Eden, into the Land of Nod.”
“I have hardly committed fratricide,” Lovecraft replied quickly. “I was alluding to Winkin and Blinkin.”
Smith smiled and didn’t bother to argue.
“Just one thing,” said Lovecraft. “Since we have come this far in a state of high anxiety, let us at least confirm the existence of the book before we retire.”
“This way,” said Smith.
Howard didn’t look pleased, but he nodded his assent. He followed Smith and Lovecraft up the walk into the house, lagging slightly behind to hide his .45 strategically in his bag.
Smith took the two men inside, where they laid their things down in the living room before proceeding into the kitchen. Glory was standing near the back door, smoking a cigarette. On the table lay an, oblong shape over which Smith had draped a red-silk scarf. For some’ reason the arrangement reminded Howard of a body laid out for cleaning before a wake. Smith pulled the scarf away with a flourish. Howard and Lovecraft expected to see the cover, but what they got instead was a thick rectangle of black velvet.
Smith noticed their puzzled expressions. He had wrapped the book in the velvet first out of respect and now, more recently, out of uneasiness. He did not exactly fear the book yet, but lately his dreams had begun to take on a sinister quality infected by the scraps of ciphered Latin he had been able to decode: obscenities, incoherent rants, wholly illogical assertions. He did not know whether it was his translations that gave them their weirdness, but he was wont to suspect that the cause lay in the original Arabic of the mad Abdul Alhazred. “My apologies for the false drama,” he said as he unwrapped the bundle and there it was, the mythic book come to life. The binding was a lightly tanned vellum like material, but clearly not vellum. It was stamped in a weathered crimson color, the letters embossed so long ago their depth was nearly gone NECRONOMICON and Abdul Alhazred. On the spine of the book were yellowed slivers of something, that must have been ivory, and bound into the spine itself was a long, coarse-woven ribbon of bleached white. Howard and Lovecraft stared at the book, mouths nearly agape, as If they had Witnessed the unveiling of a holy relic.
“I recognized it immediately,” said Smith. “It wasn’t by sight, but by intuition. I swear to you it gave off a black aura that I could feel from across the store. When I saw the cover and the contents, that only confirmed my first impression.”
Lovecraft ran his fingers over the book, tentatively stroking the cracked cover. “I still find its authenticity rather dubious. What did the dealer say?”
“It’s bound in human skin. Slivers of bone in the spine, and the bookmark is made of bleached human hair.”
Lovecraft quickly drew his hand away. “And how would an antiquarian bookseller establish all this?”
“He happens to be the son of a prominent mortician, HP.”
“Isn’t there some law against this sort of thing?” asked Glory.
Smith shook his head. “The book is a relic. And the seller was happy to get rid of it while doing me a favor at the same time. He’s a great fan of Weird Tales and the like.”
“So this is the big deal?” said Glory. “I thought you had a fancy pan of brownies under the cloth.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lovecraft.
Smith smiled. “Glory, if only a fraction of what HP imagined about this book is as real as this seems to be, then what we have here is one of the most gruesome products of human history.”
“I’m sorry,” said Glory. “I guess I’m punchy from the trip.”
“Thank you, Clark,” said Lovecraft. “But now that I’ve confirmed its existence, I find myself drained of all physical and mental energies. I now second Bob’s suggestion that we rest before proceeding.”
“Come on,” said Smith, “I’ll show you where you boys can both get some sleep. My parents may be back by tonight, so that leaves only two rooms. We can all shack up in the living room together, or I have a better plan. It’s a bit hot for it now, but tonight we can sleep outside in my study, which is what I usually do unless it rains. I’m assuming that you boys will do the gentlemanly thing and let your lady friend have my room?”
“She ain’t our lady friend,” Howard said again, looking at Glory out of the corners of his eyes.
“Shall we proceed to the living room for now, where it’s cooler, while the lady finishes her cigarette?”
Howard found both of the sofas much too soft to sleep on, so he let Lovecraft take the comfortable one and went back out to the car to get his bedroll. When he came back up, he found Smith standing awkwardly in the center of the living room with an armload of linen and pillows. Lovecraft was stretched out, still in his clothes, having only removed his shoes for comfort. Smith put his load down and gingerly covered Lovecraft as if he were a child.
“Help yourself to the sheets and whatnot,” said Smith. He lifted Lovecraft’s foul-smelling shoes by the tips so as not to touch their sweat-soaked insides. “I’ll put these out to get some air.”
“Here’s mine,” said Howard, sitting on the empty sofa to remove his boots. “I figure we’re gonna need a couple hours at least. Then we’ll wanna wash up and eat.”
“I should be able to whip something up in the kitchen while you boys are out.”
“That would be mighty hospitable of ya, Clark.” Howard said it with a touch of sarcasm, but Smith replied with a genuine smile.
“It’s really good to see you after all these years, Bob. You’re not what I expected, actually, but it’s always like that when you meet the man behind the letters.” ,
“You ain’t exactly what I expected, neither,” said Howard. “But then, neither was HP.” He chuckled at the memory of Lovecraft’s appearance as he knelt on the floor and spread out his bedroll. Smith tossed him a pillow, and he puffed it before placing it at the top. “I’ll be seein’ ya, then.”
“Sleep well.” Smith turned and went to the kitchen; he could hear Howard snoring before he even reached the door.
In the kitchen, Smith found Glory sitting silently at the table, ‘ smoking a fresh cigarette. She seemed both relieved and unhappy. There was an interesting plasticity about her features, slightly puffy and yet remarkably expressive, with the subtlest shifts of nuance.
Smith found her face fascinating, and he paused at the door to observe her With a sculptor’s eye.
Glory looked up. “Excuse me,” she said. “But I haven’t been able to shake this bad habit of mine.”
“Then I’m both happy and sorry to hear that,” Smith replied. “Bob and HP are sleeping. Would you like to go freshen up? It must have been pretty unpleasant driving in that heat.”
“It was.”
“You also look like you could use a change of clothes. Shall I see what I can dig up?”
Glory blew a plume of smoke. “You keep women’s clothes buried in your root cellar?”
Smith laughed. “Not exactly. But clothes have a certain way of accumulating. My mother has things she hasn’t worn in most of my living memory, and she’d be more than happy to see them be useful.”
“That’s very nice of her.”
“You’ll have to make do with our primitive facilities. But there’s a tub out back, and in this weather, I think you won’t mind the cold water. When you’re done look on the other side of the partition. I’ll have some clothes laid out for you.”
“Thanks.”
Smith went out with Glory, and after showing her the outdoor bathroom and the water buckets, he went back into the cabin, where he looked through his mother’s wardrobe, sorting through the stray pieces of clothing that she hadn’t worn in decades. He found a silk blouse and a pair of jodhpurs that would fit Glory. He had a keen eye for the sizes and shapes of things he could see her in those clothes, her curls of red hair wet and slicked back from her face. Yes, she would be lovely in those clothes. He went back out and laid them out on a stool in front of the partition to the tub; he heard Glory pouring water from a bucket, humming under her breath, and he paused for a moment, to listen to that quiet intimacy.