Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2. Ray Bradbury
forced himself to turn the knob and open the door. The wind sighed in, bringing another faint wail with it.
John stood in the cold weather, peering down that long walk into the dark.
‘Wait!’ I cried, at the last moment.
John waited.
‘There’s one thing I haven’t told you,’ I said. ‘She’s out there, all right. And she’s walking. But … she’s dead.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ said John.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I am. You’ll never come back. Much as I hate you right now, I can’t let you go. Shut the door, John.’
The sob again, and then the wail.
‘Shut the door.’
I reached over to knock his hand off the brass doorknob, but he held tight, cocked his head, looked at me and sighed.
‘You’re really good, kid. Almost as good as me. I’m putting you in my next film. You’ll be a star.’
Then he turned, stepped out into the cold night, and shut the door, quietly.
I waited until I heard his steps on the gravel path, then locked the door, and hurried through the house, putting out the lights. As I passed through the library, the wind mourned down the chimney and scattered the dark ashes of the London Times across the hearth.
I stood blinking at the ashes for a long moment, then shook myself, ran upstairs two at a time, banged open my tower room door, slammed it, undressed, and was in bed with the covers over my head when a town clock, far away, sounded one in the deep morning.
And my room was so high, so lost in the house and the sky, that no matter who or what tapped or knocked or banged at the door below, whispering and then begging and then screaming—
Who could possibly hear?
One for His Lordship, and One for the Road!
Someone’s born, and it may take the best part of a day for the news to ferment, percolate, or otherwise circumnavigate across the Irish meadows to the nearest town, and the nearest pub, which is Heeber Finn’s.
But let someone die, and a whole symphonic band lifts in the fields and hills. The grand ta-ta slams across country to ricochet off the pub slates and shake the drinkers to calamitous cries for: more!
So it was this hot summer day. The pub was no sooner opened, aired, and mobbed than Finn, at the door, saw a dust flurry up the road.
‘That’s Doone,’ muttered Finn.
Doone was the local anthem sprinter, fast at getting out of cinemas ahead of the damned national tune, and swift at bringing news.
‘And the news is bad,’ murmured Finn. ‘It’s that fast he’s running!’
‘Ha!’ cried Doone, as he leaped across the sill. ‘It’s done, and he’s dead!’
The mob at the bar turned.
Doone enjoyed his moment of triumph, making them wait.
‘Ah, God, here’s a drink. Maybe that’ll make you talk!’
Finn shoved a glass in Doone’s waiting paw. Doone wet his whistle and arranged the facts.
‘Himself,’ he gasped, at last. ‘Lord Kilgotten. Dead. And not an hour past!’
‘Ah, God,’ said one and all, quietly. ‘Bless the old man. A sweet nature. A dear chap.’
For Lord Kilgotten had wandered their fields, pastures, barns, and this bar all the years of their lives. His departure was like the Normans rowing back to France or the damned Brits pulling out of Bombay.
‘A fine man,’ said Finn, drinking to the memory, ‘even though he did spend two weeks a year in London.’
‘How old was he?’ asked Brannigan. ‘Eighty-five? Eighty-eight? We thought we might have buried him long since.’
‘Men like that,’ said Doone, ‘God has to hit with an axe to scare them off the place. Paris, now, we thought that might have slain him, years past, but no. Drink, that should have drowned him, but he swam for the shore, no, no. It was that teeny bolt of lightning in the field’s midst, an hour ago, and him under the tree picking strawberries with his nineteen-year-old secretary lady.’
‘Jesus,’ said Finn. ‘There’s no strawberries this time of year. It was her hit him with a bolt of fever. Burned to a crisp!’
That fired off a twenty-one-gun salute of laughs that hushed itself down when they considered the subject and more townsfolk arrived to breathe the air and bless himself.
‘I wonder,’ mused Heeber Finn, at last, in a voice that would make the Valhalla gods sit still at table, and not scratch, ‘I wonder. What’s to become of all that wine? The wine, that is, which Lord Kilgotten has stashed in barrels and bins, by the quarts and the tons, by the scores and precious thousands in his cellars and attics, and, who knows, under his bed?’
‘Aye,’ said everyone, stunned, suddenly remembering. ‘Aye. Sure. What?’
‘It has been left, no doubt, to some damn Yank driftabout cousin or nephew, corrupted by Rome, driven mad by Paris, who’ll jet in tomorrow, who’ll seize and drink, grab and run, and Kilcock and us left beggared and buggered on the road behind!’ said Doone, all in one breath.
‘Aye.’ Their voices, like muffled dark velvet drums, marched toward the night. ‘Aye.’
‘There are no relatives!’ said Finn. ‘No dumb Yank nephews or dimwit nieces falling out of gondolas in Venice, but swimming this way. I have made it my business to know.’
Finn waited. It was his moment now. All stared. All leaned to hear his mighty proclamation.
‘Why not, I been thinking, if Kilgotten, by God, left all ten thousand bottles of Burgundy and Bordeaux to the citizens of the loveliest town in Eire? To us!’
There was an antic uproar of comment on this, cut across when the front doorflaps burst wide and Finn’s wife, who rarely visited the sty, stepped in, glared around and snapped.
‘Funeral’s in an hour!’
‘An hour?’ cried Finn. ‘Why, he’s only just cold—’
‘Noon’s the time,’ said the wife, growing taller the more she looked at this dreadful tribe. ‘The doc and the priest have just come from the Place. Quick funerals was his lordship’s will. “Uncivilized,” said Father Kelly, “and no hole dug.” “But there is!” said the Doc. “Hanrahan was supposed to die yesterday but took on a fit of mean and survived the night. I treated and treated him, but the man persists! Meanwhile, there’s his hole, unfilled. Kilgotten can have it, dirt and headstone.” All’s invited. Move your bums!’
The double-wing doors whiffled shut. The mystic woman was gone.
‘A funeral!’ cried Doone, prepared to sprint.
‘No!’ Finn beamed. ‘Get out. Pub’s closed. A wake!’
‘Even Christ,’ gasped Doone, mopping the sweat from his brow, ‘wouldn’t climb down off the cross to walk on a day like this.’
‘The heat,’ said Mulligan, ‘is intolerable.’
Coats off, they trudged up the hill, past the Kilgotten gatehouse, to encounter the town priest, Father Padraic Kelly, doing the same. He had all but his collar off, and was beet faced in the bargain.
‘It’s hell’s own day,’ he agreed, ‘none of us will keep!’
‘Why