Glory said. “HP and Bob are about as queer as they come, but then ‘ those men in black and the old Indian medicine man-who would believe all of that? Last week I was living in a hotel and minding my life like anyone else.”
“Our lives are hardly ever as mundane as we assume,” said Smith, arranging the pot over the flames. “We’re always on the threshold of the fantastic, and you’ve just crossed it for now.”
“I’d rather go back. All I wanted was a ride to my sister’s place, and now I’m in some sort of mortal danger.” Glory lit a cigarette and flicked the match away.
That alarmed Smith. The instant the match hit the dry earth he stepped over and ground it under his heel. “You can never be too careful about the threat of fire this time of year,” he said. “Things are easily inflamed this season. Obviously, you haven’t been in this part of the country before. Tell me about your home.”
“Enough about me,” Glory said, somewhat embarrassed at her carelessness. “Let’s talk about you.”
“Me?” Smith said with mock modesty. “Why, I’m just a self-educated handyman who dabbles in the arts.”
“You really underestimate yourself, don’t you?”
“There really isn’t much to measure. At least not of great quence.”
“Some people have gone as far as to say that you’re the American Keats,” said Glory.
Smith knew exactly who those people were, but he pretended ignorance. “Sheer flattery,” he replied. “I hardly have the adolescent idealism of Keats. Nor do I want to die so young.”
“The hottest flame burns most brief?” said Glory.
“But smoldering embers can keep you warm through many a cold night,” said Smith. “I’ve dabbled in lots of forms, but I haven’t found my true calling, at least not yet.”
“Why are you wasting your time writing for those awful ‘magazines? ”
“You have little faith in the power of imagination.”
“I’d hardly rank the likes of HP and Bob with Keats and Shelley,” said Glory.
“They don’t purport to be poets, you know.”
“Well…”
“And you forget that Bob and HP-and I, for that matter-never enjoyed the education those poets did. We’re less beholden to the ghosts of tradition and convention. We’re creating our own. And I would dare to say that given another fifty years, it’s the stories in Weird Tales, if not the names attached to them, that will have the more profound effect on your Everyman. Who even reads the Romantic poets outside the classroom anymore?”
“I do,” said Glory.
“So do I.”
They laughed.
“I hope this isn’t too forward of me, Glory. But I was wondering if you had any attachment to Bob or HP.”
“Attachment? You mean romantic attachment? Why, you are being forward, aren’t you?”
Smith gave a crooked smile.
“The answer is no.”
“The reason I ask is because I couldn’t help but notice there’s a certain tension in Bob’s manner when he’s around you. Not exactly a possessiveness, but a sort of watchful quality.”
“Oh, be frank about it, Clark. He seethes when he’s around me, and I’m largely to blame. I confess I made advances at him one night while HP was asleep. I really shouldn’t have.” Glory smoothed back her hair and noticed the faint disk of the moon in the blue sky. “Bob’s the sort of man a girl would love to have as an older brother. He’s strong and he’s protective. He’s kind of thick when it comes to women, though.”
“Thick?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. He rebuffed me that night pretending he was morally outraged, but I think it was really because he was scared.” She paused momentarily. “Do you think he might be a virgin?”
“Given the deportment of his heroes in his writing, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. We really can’t hide our true selves even in our most fantastic work.”
“You write those sorts of stories, too, don’t you?”
“Me?” Smith laughed. “My heroes are suave men of the world compared to Bob’s.”
“Suave? In what way, exactly?”
Smith approached her and looked down, obliquely, past his nose.
“Maybe I should offer an example?” he said, and kissed her.
Glory felt her knees go weak, but she drew back before things got out of hand. “I don’t feel right about this,” she said. “It feels like I’m betraying their trust.”
“I thought—”
“I’d rather know I’m going to be alone with you, without someone barging in.”
“They’re tired,” said Smith. “Let’s meet when they’ve gone to sleep for the night. Would you join me for a moonlight stroll?”
“I bet you say that to all the ladies in Auburn.”
“No, just the married ones.”
“Scandalous,” said Glory. “I quite agree.”
WHEN THEY RETURNED, Howard and Lovecraft found Glory perched on the fallen oak, smoking a cigarette. She waved a mug at them. “Fresh coffee!” she called.
They convened around the table once again, and Smith gave a report of their meager progress. Lovecraft glanced furtively around until Howard pointed out the can of sugar, and then he spooned so much of it into his coffee that Smith’s eyes widened in concern.
“I’m not sure what to suggest,” said Smith. “The wisest course of action would be to take the book to Berkeley and let the antiquarians and philologists at it. Even so, it could take months or years to translate the text.”
“The span of months and years is hardly available to us.” Lovecraft added another spoonful of sugar. “Yet I am confident that something will transpire in a timely fashion.”
“And why’s that?” asked Howard. ” ‘Cause the crazy old Injun told us his tall tale? I wouldn’t be so happy about that, HP, since he told us we was all gonna die.”
“That seems rather moot,” said Smith. “We are all going to die, aren’t we? Eventually.”
Glory noticed the sun had already set. The horizon stretched purple and maroon across the west and the sky above was a cobalt blue and blue-black; a few wisps of cloud had drawn out like unraveling threads, gray-black on one side, tinted with a miasma of colors on the other. “He gave details,” said Glory. “Could we talk about something else?”
“Well, let’s have a little something to eat and then retire for the night. Sleeping out here, we’ll be up at the crack of dawn.” Smith got up and busied himself setting up the kerosene lamps and checking the supply of firewood.
The twilight didn’t linger for much longer, and soon, after a small snack and some incidental conversation, they set up their cots and got ready to sleep. Smith offered Glory the option of sleeping in the bedroom in the cabin, but she decided it would be safer for her to camp there with the men. She took the third cot, and Smith made himself a bedroll on the ground.
“I trust we shall have eventful dreams,” Lovecraft said by way of good night, “though I myself would much prefer a boring sojourn in the realm of Hypnos. I bid you all pleasant adventures.”
“I trust in cold steel and hot lead,” Howard mumbled.
“Good night, boys,” said Glory.
They continued to exchange quips for a few minutes before they said good night to Smith, who, by then, had silently entered the portals of sleep.
15
HOWARD WOKE UP in the middle of the night with an uncomfortably full bladder. He grumbled and sat up, scratching his head, momentarily disoriented. There were the coals of the fire still glowing, and above the black wall of the nearby tree line, the faint wash of stars behind the face of the moon.
He sat up and disengaged himself from his half-open sleeping bag, then swung his feet over the cot and tapped around for his shoes, which he now regretted taking off. For a moment he thought he had a headache, or perhaps that the coffee had been too strong, but then he realized that the night was vibrating with the sound of crickets, millions of them, it seemed. Recalling the scorpions, he quickly found his flashlight, switched it on, and pointed the beam down into his boots. They were empty.