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Sneak Preview: ''Walking after Midnight'' By C.S. Fuqua



The tools in the back clanked and rattler as the truck's front tire edged off the road onto the bumpy shoulder. Jeremiah's head nodded, bounced. He jerked straight, arms rigged, snatching the wheel, swaying the truck back onto the highway. His muscles began to twitch uncontrollably. He'd nearly hit a hitchhiker. Someone who looked familiar, too familiar.


He stopped, shifted into reverse, but when he backed to the point where the truck had left the road, the hitcher had disappeared.

Probably figured I'd try again. He drew a steadying breath and wiped away tiny droplets of sweat that had popped out above his lips. He put the truck in first and drove on. Rain streamed down in tinfoil strips as the windshield wipers beat steadily side to side. And soon Jeremiah again felt the monotonous rhythm lulling him toward sleep. He slapped his face, shook his head.

Getting too old for this.He steered the truck into the parking lot of a small grocery store, closed for the holiday. A Santa Claus grinned from the doorway. He punched off the lights, switched off the engine, closed his eyes. And though he'd stopped here simply to catch a nap, without the monotony of the road and the wipers, sleep became impossible.


He twisted out of the seat and stepped into the rear of the truck. Maybe straightening his tool stock would at least get his blood pumping enough to keep him awake until he got the truck home--''after midnight,'' he mumbled bitterly, but the words conjured up a smile. In his mind, Bessie smiled back. She had loved country music, but no artist better than Patsy Cline. And though she couldn't remember the words, she used to sing one song relentlessly, the tune Jeremiah's grumbling had brought to his own lips now--''Walking After Midnight.''


The frigid breath of December whispered in through the door cracks. A half-century of pushing wrenches to service station owners, to hardware store operators, to anyone, to everyone. Jeremiah had worked for three companies, none with a retirement program. Yet Bessie had begged him to retire ten years ago: ''We can live on social security.'' But a man and woman, he argued, can't buy much of a life with peanuts. Still, Bessie pleaded, and finally Jeremiah said okay; he'd give up the road, he'd come home putter. Then Bessie had to go and have that heart attack just two days before he was to give notice.

''Gramma said you were going to quit.''

''I was, baby, but I got no reason now. Living alone ain't much of a life.''

''But you're not alone, Grampa. You have us.''

''On weekends, Missy. I can't live my life on weekends.''

A crescent wrench clinked against pliers in Jeremiah's quivering hands. Bessie had lived her life on weekends.

The rain gradually hardened, grew into sleet that battered the roof. Wind whistled under the doors. Jeremiah cupped his hands around his mouth and blew as he started for the front. He crawled into the seat behind the big wheel and cranked the engine, remembering how Bess used to wait up until he got home, no matter how late. He peered into a night he had not seen the likes of in a good twenty years. Last time the rain had turned to sleet this early in the season this far south, the government had called about his son.

Jeremiah's truck pulled onto the deserted highway, headlight beams driving deep into the mercury slick sleet. Another hour, he'd be home. For the weekend. Clop-clop. The windshield wipers did their job, allowing thin sheets of ice to form only around the edges where the defroster could not make itself useful. The road passed in hypnotic streaks of white.

Clop-clop

''Sarah says you got someone else on your route, Jerry.'' She laughs.

''You believe everything Sarah says?''

''If I did, I'd've left you a long time ago.''

No one laughs. They lie in the darkness until one of them---they never remember which---kisses the other, and they bring their bodies together, caressing, lingering.

Clop-clop.

Jeremiah's head bobbed.

A whisper: ''Jerry.'

He gasped, snatched himself erect and yanked the wheel, bringing the truck weaving center-road. He glanced around, his eyes filling. That voice. He'd heard it a million times in dreams, conjured it up a million times more in memory. But this time---so real.

In the fringe of the headlight beam, someone waved from the ditch. Jeremiah wrenched around for a better look, but the image was gone. A mirage. A senile old man's wish image. He shook his head sadly at his mistake.

First to go's the mind, then the body.

Bess had said that. Used to call him crazy when he'd sneak up behind her in the kitchen and race icy fingers under her dress and clamp his hand to her thigh. She'd scream like a psychotic killer and chase him through the house with spatula in hand, dripping spaghetti sauce down her arm. Then he'd spin around, catch her in a bear hug, and they'd kiss and fall on the couch, tangling, forgetting the meal on the stove. And when they would finally sit down to dinner, he'd laughingly sop up as much as he could hold, all the while saying,

''Charcoal's good for you!''

First to go's the mind. . . It was a joke back then, but hearing and seeing things that just aren't there isn't funny at all. Too distracting, too discomforting. If Jeremiah did't face the inevitable, on one of these late-night, long-route drives he'd find himself. . . .

In the ditch, in waste-high weeds, a man in army fatigues, his hands cupped at his mouth as if holding a harmonica.

''Bill?''

Jeremiah slammed his foot onto the brake pedal, and immediately realized his mistake. Never an accident in his career, and now, the very night his mind starts to go, he destroys his perfect driving record.

The truck broke into a dream-like skid. By the time his body began to respond, the dreamy skid had turned into a nightmare roll. Wrenches clattered and banged from their bins. Jeremiah felt himself rise into darkness. He heard the crash from far away, a tiny sound, a pin dropping. Then gradually, he drifted back, back, could hear the steady rain of sleet on steel, the clop-clop of the windshield wipers, the hiss of water on a hot engine.

Jeremiah raised his head and groaned. Crystals of freezing water dripped in from somewhere above. He touched his forehead, winced, pulled his fingers away. In the dim dashboard light, he could see blood.

''First the mind,'' he mumbled, ''then the driving record.'' He raised up on one arm, got bearings. The truck had come to rest on its side about twenty feet off the road. And for what? A trick of his mind, the image of a man who died twenty years ago in someone else's war.

Jeremiah sat up, bracing himself against the driver's seat. He got to his knees and checked his forehead in the rearview mirror. A superficial cut, more blood than wound.

Clop-clop.

Jeremiah clicked off the ignition. The wipers fell dead. He cut the lights. Sleet sliced against the truck, clung to the frame in freezing fingers. Jeremiah shivered, pulled his coat from the back of the seat and slipped it on.

''You can't drive today. There's ice on the bridges, all over the road. You'll kill yourself.''

''Guess I'm stuck here then.''

She grins, begins unbuttoning his shirt. ''I quess so.''

Jeremiah's teeth began to chatter as he sat there, trying to decide what to do next. If only someone would pass on the highway, but that was unlikely. He hadn't met another car more than an hour.

Weather's going to play havoc with business this winter.

The sleet began to ease as Jeremiah scraped his hand across the windshield and peered into the night. The darkness possessed and odd, metallic glow, and he could see tiny flakes of white intermingling with the waning sleet. Jeremiah's eyes warmed with the sight. He sniffled, wiped his nose with his wrist.

She shudders and snuggles closer.

Her breath is a feather stroke on his neck. The sky is pewter through a window flecked by snowflakes. He thinks she is asleep until her fingers begin a slow walk down his stomach. Her lips tickle his ear. She hums softly, that same old song about walking after midnight. Before the army, Bill sometimes accompanied her singing on harmonica. But today she hums unaccompanied as she slides onto Jeremiah. The snow falls into a silent, gentle drift on their bedroom windowsill.

Jeremiah stood up shakily, his knees tight with age arthritis. Worse every winter. He moved them in a circular motion, loosening up, then climbed onto the shelving to work his way to the rear. Hr flung open the back door, and the wind sang over him---chilling, yes but somehow a relief from the feeling of being trapped inside. He lowered himself to the soggy soil, then pulled his collar tighter. The sleet had stopped completely now. Snowflakes gathered in his hair, settled on his eyebrows. A thin blanket of white had begun to spread on the highway.

He struggled up the bank, slipping once, then started walking in the direction from which he'd driven. He'd passed a couple houses since leaving the grocery, but he he couldn't recall how far back those houses lay. Didn't matter. They were back there. And he needed a phone. Might as well get started. With luck, someone would drive by and give him a ride. Then he'd call for a tow, call the cops, call his boss. That would satisfy all the requirements. So ehat if the last guy yo wreck a truck got canned? So what if that man had been with the company two years longer than Jeremiah?

''What're you supposed to do, drive in the snow? Even the plows won't get through this mess.'' She nuzzles closer and nibbles on his neck. ''And this'll give me a couple of more days with you.''

The phone rings. She groans playfully, answers, ''Helloooo?'' A moment's silence, then she whispers, ''Thank you,''

cradles the receiver and holds him tighter. He feels the warmth of her tears, the mucus she can't stop. ''B-billie's missing''

Two days later, the uniformed men arrive at the door of Jeremiah's daughter-in-law. Jeremiah is on the road, trying to make up sales lost because of the early snow, when Cindy comes to Bessie and tells her that Billie is no longer missing: All that's left of Jeremiah's son is a medal, a flag, a set of dog tags and a body. No one knows what happened to the harmonica that Cindy gave him their first Christmas together, the harmonica he played when Bessie sang. ''Charley probably took it for the gold.''

Jeremiah raised his face to the sky. Snowflakes settled on his brow and melted into tiny streams down his face, mixing with tears to soak the collar off his jacket. The winter wind that had earlier robbed the truck of its warmth had calmed now. Snow settled around him in a soft crackle, a swish. Jeremiah felt as if he could lie down here, draw the white cover around himself and wait until someone, anyone came by.

''So why don't you?'' came a voice from behind.

Jeremiah caught his breath and spun around. When he saw the man, Jeremiah's mouth went slack.

The man wore no jacket, only army-issued camouflage pants, shirt and boots. A Purple Heart dangled from his helmet. The man glanced up, following Jeremiah's stare at the medal. ''Best place for it. I'm a hero you know.''

Jeremiah's eyes glittered in the plae night glow; mucus streamed from his nose.

''Grampa, Grampa!'' The youngest one's killed a thousand Charleys in the back yard. Now his machine gun dangles silently off one shoulder. ''Grampa, I saw Daddy''

Jeremiah folds the newspaper, lays it on the floor. He slides to the edge of the chair and pulls the wide-eyed boy between his knees, his speckled hands on the boys's shoulders. His voice cracks: ''Your mommy already explained about your daddy. You know he won't be coming home.''

The boy twists in the old man's grasp.

''But I saw him, I saw him!''

Jeremiah shakes the boy ''Stop it! Your father's dead, Tommy. He's dead!''

The boy wrenches free, shatters the plastic machine gun against the doorjamb as he flees the room. Jeremiah buries his face in his hands.

''B-billie?''

''In the flesh. . . . well, almost,'' the man replied, chuckling.

Jeremiah swallowed, felt his mouth grow as dry as sandpaper. First to go'S the mind. . . .

The young man in the uniform laughed again. ''Then the body.''

Isn't real! Jut my mins. Jeremiah turned away and started down the road.

First to. . . .

''Dad,'' his son's voice called.

Jeremiah slapped his hands over his ears. His lips trembled. Tears rivered down his face. But he kept walking.

Then softly, pleading: ''How's Cindy? The kids?''

That was all Jeremiah could take. His body began quaking uncontrollably. One more step, he knew he'd collapse. ''Don't y-you know?'' he whispered.

The young man's image shimmered; snowflakes drifted straight through. ''Once, I tried once,'' replied the man. ''How I wish I could let her know. . . .'' The image faded completely.

The old man reached out weakly, croaking, ''Son?''

A second later the young man rematerialized, but his clothing had changed from army camouflage to jeans, a western shirt, a cowboy hat; the way he dressed the day he left home. A harmonica glittered into his hands. He raised it to his lips. But when the young man began to play, Jeremiah heard more than the harmonica's music; he heard the melodious humming of a woman. The he saw her, emerging from the shadows behind the young man.

A lump grew so large in Jeremiah's throat, he was certain he'd choke. His knees wobbled weakly as the woman approached, her arms beckoning. And then he felt those arms surround him. He buried his face in her hair, sucked in her musky aroma, savoring. The flesh of her lips pressed against his neck; her breath fell hot and moist his skin. The harmonica whined softly. And the woman hummed the old song about walking a highway after midnight, lonesome, hoping that somewhere he would be searching for her.

Jeremiah raised his eyes; the young man was gone.

''Bess. . . .''

The woman put a finger to his lips. She took his head in her hands, spreading her fingers like webs, and slowly pulled him down, down, until they were lying on a bed of white, as warm and as soft as their bed at home. A delicate blanket settled over them. And Jeremiah drifted as lightly as a snowflake.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sam Posner pulled his sunglasses off and squinted. In sunlight, snow always appeared ten time brighter. He opened the squad car door, stepped into the driveway. Some guy in a tow truck looking for a few extra bucks on Christmas day had nearly run over a old man's body not ten feet from this drive a little past daybreak. The trooper climbed the steps of the house, knocked on the door. A few seconds later, a tiny, gray-haired woman appeared.

Yes, she had heard something during the night. ''Sounded like music, but I guess it was the wind. I looked out, but all I saw was snow.''

Officer Posner thanked the woman for her time and climbed into the squad unit. He backed the car out of the driveway, and, with a sigh, headed for town. Now came the hardest part of the job: informing the-next-of-kin, the old man's widowed daughter-in-law. Maybe the dead man's few personal belongings would soften the moment---a wallet, some change, a pocket watch. And of course, the gold harmonica.


Author C.S. Fugua

Official Page: csfuqua.com

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Author Mini Bio

Chris Fuqua has worked as a newspaper reporter, magazine editor, book editor, English tutor, substitute teacher, janitor, respiratory therapy technician, gas station attendant (when such things existed), salesclerk, musician in a Mexican restaurant, writing instructor, and more.. Chris’s work spans a broad spectrum—historical, musical, and social nonfiction, and dark fantasy, literary, and science fiction and poetry—appearing in hundreds of publications worldwide as diverse as Bull Spec, Main Street Rag, Slipstream, Pearl, Bogg, Chiron Review, The Year’s Best Horror Stories, Cemetery Dance, Christian Science Monitor, Honolulu Magazine, Naval History, and The Writer. His published books include Native American Flute Craft ~ Ancient to Modern, The Native American Flute ~ Myth, History, Craft, Trust Walk and Rise Up fiction collections, The Swing: Poems of Fatherhood, Big Daddy’s Fast-Past Gadget, Muscle Shoals ~ The Hit Capital’s Heyday & Beyond, Cancer, White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems, and Notes to My Becca.


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Portrait Of The Dead Men


It looks like Lincoln. It moves and talks and smiles like Lincoln. But it's a machine. And it has an inevitable date with destiny.


EMILE VARNER CARESSED the worn almost living features with a gentle, tracing finger. ''Soch weariness, sooch grandeur. That sooch a man should die.'' His own worn, tired mouth smiled softly, his tired old eyes lighted momentarily and his back, not quite hunched -but gnome-like in droop, came almost erect. ''But I make you live again.''

Emile's kindly, gentle voice still held distinct traces of the old Bavarian accent, event after forty years. ''Yes, by me you live again.'' His finger touched the eyelid with tenderness. ''In a moment you will open those great eyes that saw so clearly. Sooch wise eyes, yet so shadowed, so tragically sad. Yet they lived to see a country united.''

He reached down and lifted one of the great gnarled hands, studied the knuckled fingers, turned the hand over as laid the hand lightly on the still breast. ''In a moment. . . if he would read a destiny in the palm.

''United by these hands.'' Old Emile Varner sighed and a moment. . . you will. . . breathe.''

''Hey, Pop!'' The young, brash voice behind him startled the old man into sudden shivers. He pivoted slowly on bandy legs to glare at the younger man. What was the boy's name? Jim? John? It didn't really matter. He was just one of the clever young men, electronic experts they called themselves, who were working under Varner. He nodded at the recumbentfigure.

''He looks more like Lincoln than Raymond Massey.''

The irreverence of it struck Emile Varner like a blow. His bent back straightened, his big, slightly over-sized head tossed so that the white hair whipped across his forehead.

''He IS Lincoln! That is the face which looked out over Gettysburg! Those hands rested on the Bible to take the Oath!''

''Sorry, sir.'' The young man really sounded regretful. He turned away from the fading anger in Varner's eyes and stared sown at the recumbent figure. ''Guess I've been working on the meachanics of it too long.'' He peered at the tired, noble face, quiet now in repose. ''He looks---at peace.''

Varner nodded. ''He was a peaceful man. That is his face, it tells us so. His face. Cast from the death mask by Volks. His hands---from the very molds the good doctor took of him. The big, awkward knuckles. Even the lines. . . the tragic, abrupt lifeline. That should have warned him.'' Varner hesitated, smiled almost shyly at the young man. ''Perhaps it did.''

The young technician nodded, sober now. ''I've heard stories. I mean, about his premonitions. Didn't he. . . Oh.'' The young man started. ''Sorry, I forgot. I'm supposed to tell you we're going to activate the face. To time with the tape.'' He grinned at Varner. ''Might be a little startling to see his eyes open and hear him talk if you weren't prepared.''

Emile Varner stepped back, away from the recumbent givant, away from the young man. His own shabby suit and frayed cuffs took on some lustre of dignity from his proudly held head, his suddenly straightened back. ''I' have been prepared for this moment longer than you have lived.'' He hesitated, glanced at the tired, gentle face, speaking softly. '' I will stay with him. When he awakes it is better he sees first someone who loves him.''

The young man stifled an exclamation, managed not to smile at the old man, and nodded. ''Of course, sir. This is your moment.'' He turned away, walking rapidly across the stage, which had been weathererd and aged artfully to simulate the stage of Ford's Theater. He passed the figure of Laura Keene, caught in a half curtsy toward the right hand box. So truly intent on the box was her simulated gaze that he perforce turned back to glance at it himself.

In the bunting-draped box, well forward, sat Mary Todd Lincoln, her curiously stiff curls framing the withering cheeks, her black lace fan held almost coquettishly. Behind her, was the emty space. He could just see the high back of the old rocker where the figure of Lincoln would soon be placed.

To Mary Lincoln's right sat the vapid-faced girl. Alice? The young technician couldn't remember. And behind her, smart in a resplendent uniform, sat Major Rathbone, substitude for the aide who might have been alert enought to prevent. . .

''I'm getting as crackers as Varner,'' the young man told himself. ''Been working too long on this project. That's the ticket. Keep thinking of it as a project, and it won't get to me, like it's gotten to Varner''

But he knew that wasn't quite right. There wouldn't have been any project if it hadn't beenfor Varner, with his intense dedication, his long, often spectacular battle to bring this off. The figure of Lincoln at the unfortunate New York World's Fair---now in Disneyland--- had almost broken the old man, but the project had gone on.

And the Lincoln in Disneyland was good. Good, hell. It was a terrific accomplishment. A masterpiece. He'd spent long weeks studying the meticulous detaik of the figure, the electronic console that controlled it.

But Varner's reproduction of the Ford Theater scene went far beyond that. Seven Figures. The four in the box and Laura Keene in her pin-wheel gown standing in that half curtsy between the plump, dough-faced, overdressed haridan, The Dowager, and the horse-faced, blundering Asa Trenchard. Joe Jefferson? No,not Joe Jefferson. He'd already left the company. Set up his own as Rip van Winkle. If he'd been at the theater that night, John Wilkes Booth wouldn't have been allowed in the house.

The young man shook his head, as if to clear it. ''I'm doing it again. Reliving history, Damn the old man. He's got us so steeped in it we. . . Still, maybe we wouldn't have been so patient with the old boy. . . Kee-rist, this thing takes more programming than a Moon shot.

''And you'd better get with it,'' he told himself, ''or some of that programmmig won't time out.'' He scuttled below the stage, into a brilliantly lit area crammed with electronic gear, long, fat cables reached up through the ceiling to animate the seven figures Of course, the Dowager and the comic were mainly cyclical, a casual bow and then only breathing and slight motion, so they wouldn't look like wax-works. Laura Keene, as befitted the star with her own company---now why had she let Joe Jefferson go?

The young man joined the group around the great console, immersing himself delibetarily in the intricacies of the equipment. This bank controlled Mary Todd Lincoln's timed bow which acknowledged the audience's applause. The vapis girl was to be made to turn twice and speak, or rather titter, at the Major. The Major was a little more complex. He had to stand when the President rose to speak and hold his broad-brimmed hat over his heart during the National Anthem. After all, with the war just over, there'd be the ceremony acknowledging the President in his first relaxation since the Peace Treaty.

Getting the old musical instruments---and men who could play them in the correct tempo---had been a job. Not his, thank goodness. And thank goodness there wasn't much that had to be coordinated with the music. Only the comic to stand at attention along with the major and the President.

The truly complex part came when Lincoln rose to speak. Eye movements to control, facial muscles to flex, the mouth to coordinate, the hands to move in lanky, awkward gestures, the tired swaying of the great, gaunt body so burdened with the cares of a torn and bleeding nation. It would be a miracle if they could have all this complexity meshing in time for the opening perfprmance. Yet he knew they would.

It looked like bedlam now, like confusion confounded, but it would all tie together. The curtain would go up---and Varner would taste his triumph.

Above, on the quiet stage, Emile Varner watched the tired face, cast from the Volk death mask into metal and a plastic so true it seemed like flesh. He waited solemnly, yet with a chest tightening exultation. In a moment. . .

The great eyes opened, blinked, then steadied on Varner's own majestic, wearied features. The lips opened, moved, but no sound came. Varner reached for one of the great, knuckled hands, cradling it in two of his. ''Don't try to speak. Not yet. You're tired. Mister Lincoln. These are terrible times.''

The face of Lincoln softened into a smile and the lips moved again. Suddenly Varner felt the hand open under his, twitch, then close with gentle pressure.

''I am your friend.'' Emile Varner watched the great, soft, baffled eyes close, and movement was stilled.

Below stage the electronics engineer at the console nodded, held up a hand, thumb and forefinger forming a circle of approval. ''All contacts okay.''

A week later the doors opened on the first performance of ''Mister Lincoln at Ford'S Theater,'' to a capacity house, mostly, of course, celebrities who carefully cultivate such premieres on a advice of agents and managements, a large block of the backers and their friends, a few public officials whose main function seems to be attending functions, and a few of Lincoln's ''just people.'' who had been lucky enough to obtain tickets.

It had beeb a triumph for Emile Varner. Even the giddiest starlet had been subdued and awed. Offcials congratulated themselves on for once having attended something that didn't bore them to death, and the backers went away happy, surrounded by groups of vociferously admiring friends.

Of course, there were some who were disappointed that the show hadn't carried on to the assassination, but those critics were few. Some historians attended and argued afterward that Mister Lincoln hadn't said anything like that at Ford's Theater, which he hadn't but Varner and the producers had taken certain license there. The Gettysburg address had seemed appropriate for that moment of ending a war.

Even after the opening night crowd left and the theater was deserted, except for Emile Varner seated far back in a corner, the final ringing words seemed to stir the curtain and sway the last, dimming ligts. . . ''that a government of the people, by the people for the people shall not perish from this earth.''

Emile Varner, tears blurring his eyes, made his way down the center aisle and stopped just below the bunting draped box. He caught at the eye of the stage and looked up ''Thank you, Mister Lincoln.'' He turned and walked down the aisle to the spacious lobby, as he was to do every night after the last performance.

''Mister Lincoln at Ford's Theater'' temporarily swept the latest Moon probe off the front pages of the newspapers and usurped vast numbers of pages in weekly news magazines. Radios talked of it, and television, as much as was permitted, showed portions of the tremendously complex electronic features, but always with rather awed references to Mister Lincoln.

The publicity also triggered any number of new books on Lincoln and his era and revived interest in hundreds of others. Comparisons with the assassination of John F. Kennedy were revived and parallels cited, including the fact that both assassins had been paranoiacs, frustrated men who committed the greates abomination each could conceive to satisfy a shrivelled and warped ego.

Emile Varner was in his usual place that night, weeks later, as the awed and silently admiring audience straggled out.

He waited a moment for the last flicker of lights that signalled the end of the long day. Only a few scattered lights would be left on for the cleaning crew, and he watched them flash mechanically on. Slowly he made his way down the aisle, made his good nigh speech and then dropped down below stage for a final check, as he always did, to be sure that none of the equipment had been left turned on inasvertently.

All was in order. Emile Varner nodded approvingly. His crew was good. He started back up the narrow stairs which opened into the orchestra pit just below the draped box. It was only then that he heard the voices.

Some of the crew remaining late? The cleaning people? No, they wouldn't be in until nearly dawn. Then who. . . ?

Silently, on old legs gone shaky, Emile tiptoed up the last remaining steps and turned toward the stage.

A young man stood there. Just how Emile knew he ws young he couldn't say. Something in the arrogance of the head, the lithe, supple stance of the body, visible despite the short cape. The figure was vaguely familiar, yet he couldn't place it. Shadows from the work lights obscured the face.

The figure moved, darted toward the box, and the voiice, tight with strain and anger, shouted out. ''You can't do this! You're dead! Dead a century! You should be forgotten! I am the martyr! I sacrificed everything---career, love, money, to destroy you! I should be the one they honor! The statues belong to me. The pedestals, the praise, the warmth of human love! You've stolen them from me!''

'' No.'' The tall, gaunt figure rose from the rocking chair and stepped to the front of the box. ''I stole nothing, young man. You stuck in anger, frustration, in some perverted sense of revenge.'' The voice d,ded almost to a whisper, gentle, kindly. ''I bear you no ill will. Not even for the agony I endured from your bullet. Not even for the things I might have done to heal the breach of this tragic war.''

The slender figure took another step, one arm flashing up, a single splash of light along the silver tonque of a dagger. ''You robbed me of honor, for a deed that should have rung down through the ages!'' The young, strained voice went off hysterically. ''For you I died in disgrace, hunted, hiding in a barn, when all the world. . . . ''

The gentle, weary voice of Abraham Lincoln spoke from the box, the magnificent eyes looking down in pity. ''Revenge, my son, is the recourse of small souls. You cannot expect honor for revenge.''

''I can! It is my due! My due, for a noble deed, nobly conceived. . . As Ceasar had his Brutus, as. . . ''

His breath tight in his chest, his limbs leaden,, Emile Varner moved. It seemed as if he moved through heavier air, with difficult, even with pain, but his hand found the revolver he had always carried since those mad days of vengeance back in Germany.

He raised the weapon, stadying ,t on the lip of the stage, aimed at the young man's back, before he spoke. Just one single, crisp, short word.

''Stop!''

The young man whirled, one hand diving under his cape for a derringer. Emile Varner stared at the face, familiar from a thousand picture studies. John Wilkes Booth.

''You can't stop me! This time I shall. . . ''

Emile Varner fired.

The young man staggered, gasped and turned so that he faced the work light. The head tilted far back, the mouth opening ,n a silent scream. Then, as the slender figure slumped, the agonized face went blank.

And changed, softened, grew younger, calmer. The young technician? What was his name? James? John?

''Oh, god! I've made a ghastly mistake!'' Emile Varner tried to clamber to the stage and couldn't quite make it.

The young technician crumpled slowly, rolling until his eyes stared into Varner's. His voice was dying whisper in a mouth that twisted in pain. ''I. . . didn't. . . want to. . . He. . . took over. . . '' The last word trailed off into a faint whisper, a little more than a stirring in the dust.

And hen the figure was dust, old, dessicated, with a faint odor of the tomb. And the dust settled into a tidy outline, leaving nothing but the derringer and a silver glitter of a dagger on the stage.

A Mortal's Touch



It was beyond doubt that Luccinario was the most powerful magician in the realm, in fact the old man never tired of spreading the fact far and wide, spouting endlessly through his wild, long, grey beard. He dressed as a magician is supposed to dress, in flowing robes; he acted like a magician is supposed to act; and, as any magician worth his salt lives in a castle, Luccinario lived in one, the largest in the land, of course.

Cartierri, on the other hand, was a magician of a much lover order; Luccinario never tired of telling him that too. Blighting crops, causing cows to dry up, Cartierri could do that all right: but for anything requiring more skill. . . well, you had to look elsewhere. A small character, resembling a humanoid rat, he stood with Luccinario in the latter's magical chamber.

''as I see it, Cartierri,'' said Luccinario, mixing together various ingredients - better left unmentioned - in a large bowl, ''you need a spell to make an enemy wither and die?''

''That is so,'' squaked Cartierri. ''My worst enemy. A man who would harm me without thought.''

''I can think of thousands.'' Luccinario's laughter boomed around the high, grey stone walls of the chamber.

''Be that as it may,'' grinned Cartierri, showing remarkably yellow, rodent-like teeth, ''it must be one hundred percent certain of working, otherwise all the Hell hounds of the nether regions will be howling at my heels.''

The grey beard quivered in sudden rage, the black eyes blazed with ill-concealed fury. ''What! You dare to suggest that a spell wrought by Luccinario would fail to work? Be careful, punny one.''

''I beg forgiveness, Lord Luccinario, I meant to cast no aspersions on your greatness.''

''I should think not, slimy, four-foot toad. . . ''

Luccinario carried on mixing the ingredients of the spell. Baffled as he was, a smile was upon his parchment-dry lips: he took a pride in his creations and worked with gusto. It was in some ways the same kind of pride a master chef would feel. The pale green brew in the earthenware bowl bubbled of its own accord.

The great magician drew himself to his full height, magnificent in his red robe.

''You see the strength of the brew, sly one? A heady mixture, equal to any wine pf the Witch Queen Anumi. A liquid that will serve your needs wll, fear not.''

'' I trust so,'' Cartierri plucked a thread that held a patch in his tattered clothes.

''You rat-faced son of a whore!'' roared Luccinario angrily. ''Cease to denigrate my work, or I will have your insides in a bottle before me!''

''Forgive me once again, great one,'' begged rat-face, ''it was spoken without thought,''

''As you possess no brain, that is quite understandable.''

The master magician began stirring the sickening mess, his anger melting away again. ''You realise my services will not be cheap, weakling. I shall require -silver. Perhaps as much as six hundred quandros.''

Cartierri smiled hurriedly - which was enough to turn the strongest of stomachs - so as not to insult Luccinario again. ''Fear not, 0 high one, I have been saving what coins I could. Why, only last week I robbed three corpses, stealing the silver that closed their eyes. One crone also wore a gold ring; I had to detach the finger with my dagger of course, but Delial the merchant gave me twelve quandros for it.''

''Huh! It was probably worth a hundred. Why do you wish harm upon your enemy, sever-rat? How has he belittled you? If indeed that is possible . . .''

Cartierri scowled and his rodent eyes twinkled for a second or two, then he said carefully: ''Many years ago I entagled a wench by magic, wishing to experience her charms at my leisure. She was fair, not more than eighteen years, and better for passing the time thn wine-drinking. But before I could take my pleasure, my enemy stole her from me.''

''Which shows just how weak your puny powers really are, filth of the night.''

''Indeed,great one.... your wisdom is ageless.''

''''Is that all he has done to you?''

''No, dark lord. That was only the beginning. He has victimised me time and time again.''

''Welli now, Luccinario grinned slowly, ''I will show you what the powers of a real magician can do to the enemy you think so strong.''

The great magician lifted up the bowl in his ancient, bejewelled hands, raising it to chest height. Cartierri saw the age-old runes carved around the bowl, whose meaning, as an initiate of the lower orders, he could only guess at. Luccinario muttered an incantation known only to himself and the Seven Lords of the Mist, and hurled the contents into the fire that burned in the centre of the chamber.

There was a shattering crash - like, yet unlike, thunder - far more terrible than any natural storm. Cartierri's features twisted into a mask of animal fear, then slowly relaxed into their usual ugliness.

Yellow smoke was rising from the fire and whirling into a cloud, like a twisting, formless animal.

''Now you shall see, ''Luccinario grinned broadlyi staring at the cloud, ''go on your way, spell of mine, attack the rat-one's worst enemy.''

The cloud whirled around and began moving. . . towards Luccinario.

Cartierri was smiling. ''Yes, indeed. My worst enemy. . .'' He turned his smug gaze on Luccinario. ''You will recall, great one, that it was you who stole the girl from me so long ago.'' He was growing in confidence by the second. ''You are my worst enemy, great magician.''

The yellow, writhing cloud was racing towards Luccinario, who to Cartierri's surprise still maintained his stance and still continued to smile.

''I think, puny, that you have been premature with your craftiness. It will be good to be free of you.''

He held one hand up, index finger pointing. The mist raced toward the magician's finger like filings drawn towards a magnet. Next Luccinario whirled his arm around his head, the yellow vapour following. . . then it began racing back towards the rat-faced one.

''You see, inmate of the sewers , I believe you are your worst enemy.'' Cartierri's smile faded and was quickly replaced by a look of horror - he had time for one scream before the mist engulfed him. Through the mist the laughing Luccinario could see the rodent features cracking and withering, falling away in rotting pieces; then the rat-one collapsed.

The great magician strode forward and snatched the purse from Cartierri's belt, undid the string and tilted it over his outstretched palm; a few silver coins fell out. The smile left his face as he snarled, ''The son of a twice-accursed whore!''

There were no more than six coins in his hand.

''Filth of the gutter! Slime of the sewer! Even in death he insults me. Even in the dark realms he cannot br trusted!''

Luccinario bellowed in anger, hurling the purse and its contents from him, the coins clattering against the farthest wall. The magician had abandoned himself to rage and was ruled now by his temper. Luccinario, greatest and most accomplished pf all the magicians, failed to see that he had wandered. . .into the yellow mist. . .

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