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Futuria Fantasia, Winter 1940

Page 8

The Intruder -- emil petaja   8

It was in San Francisco, on the walk above the sand and surf that pounded like the heart of the earth. There was wind, the sky and sea blended in a grey mist.

I was sitting on a stone bench watching a faint hint of distant smoke, wondering what ship it was and from what far port.

Mine was a pleasant wind-loneliness. So when he came, wrapped in his great overcoat and muffler, hat pulled down, and sat on my bench. I was about to rise and leave him. There were other benches, and I was not in the mood for idle gossip about Hitler and taxes.

"Don't go. Please." His plea was authentic.

"I must get back to my shop," I said.

"Surely you can spare a moment." I could not even begin to place the accent in his voice. Low as a whisper, tense. His deep-set eyes held me...his face was pale and had a serenity born of suffering. A placcid face, not given to emotional betrayels, yet mystical. I sat down again. Here was someone bewilderingly strange. Someone I wouldn't soon forget. He moved a hand toward me, as tho to hold me from going, and I saw with mild curiosity that he wore heavy gloves, like mittens.

"I am not well. I...I must not be out in the damp air," I said. "But today I just had to go out and walk. I had to."

"I can understand." I warmed to the wave of aloneness that lay in his words. "I too have been ill." "I know you, Otis Marlin. I have visited your shop off Market Street. You are not rich, but the feel of the covers on a fine book between your hands suffices. Am I right?"

I nodded. "But how..."

"You have tried writing, but have had no success. Alone in the world, your loneliness has much a family man, harassed, might envy."

"That's true," I admitted, wondering if he could be a seer, a fake mystic bent on arousing in me an interest in spiritism favorable to his pocket-book. His next words were a little amused, but he didn't smile. 

"No, I'm not a psychic -- in the ordinary sense. I've visited your shop. I was there only yesterday," he said. And I remembered him. IN returning from my lunch I had met him coming out of my humble place of business. One glimpse into those brooding eyes was not a thing to soon forget, and I recalled pausing to watch his stiff-legged progress down the street and around the corner.

There was now a pause, while I watched leaves scuttling along the oiled walk in the growling wind. Then a sound like a sigh came from companion. It seemed to me that the wind and the sea spoke loudly of a sudden, as the approaching some dire climax. The sea wind chilled me as it had not before. I wanted to leave.

"Dare I tell you? DARE I!" His white face turned upward. It was as though he questioned some spirit in the winds.

I was silent; curious, yet fearful of what it might be he might not be allowed to tell me. The winds were portentously still.

"Were you ever told, as a child, that you must not attempt to count the stars in the sky at night -- that if you did you might lose your mind?"

"Why, yes. I believe I've heard that old superstition. Very reasonable, I believe; based on the assumption that the task would be too great for one brain. I..."

"I suppose it never occurred to you," he interrupted, "that this superstition might hold even more truth than that, truth as malignant as it is vast. Perhaps the cosmos hold secrets beyond comprehension of man; and what is your assurance that these secrets are beneficent and kind? Is nature rather not terrible, than kind? In the stars are

Saving...

The Intruder -- emil petaja 8 It was in San Francisco, on the walk above the sand and surf that pounded like the heart of the earth. There was wind, the sky and sea blended in a grey mist. I was sitting on a stone bench watching a faint hint of distant smoke, wondering what ship it was and from what far port. Mine was a pleasant wind-loneliness. So when he came, wrapped in his great overcoat and muffler, hat pulled down, and sat on my bench. I was about to rise and leave him. There were other benches, and I was not in the mood for idle gossip about Hitler and taxes. "Don't go. Please." His plea was authentic. "I must get back to my shop," I said. "Surely you can spare a moment." I could not even begin to place the accent in his voice. Low as a whisper, tense. His deep-set eyes held me...his face was pale and had a serenity born of suffering. A placcid face, not given to emotional betrayels, yet mystical. I sat down again. Here was someone bewilderingly strange. Someone I wouldn't soon forget. He moved a hand toward me, as tho to hold me from going, and I saw with mild curiosity that he wore heavy gloves, like mittens. "I am not well. I...I must not be out in the damp air," I said. "But today I just had to go out and walk. I had to." "I can understand." I warmed to the wave of aloneness that lay in his words. "I too have been ill." "I know you, Otis Marlin. I have visited your shop off Market Street. You are not rich, but the feel of the covers on a fine book between your hands suffices. Am I right?" I nodded. "But how..." "You have tried writing, but have had no success. Alone in the world, your loneliness has much a family man, harassed, might envy." "That's true," I admitted, wondering if he could be a seer, a fake mystic bent on arousing in me an interest in spiritism favorable to his pocket-book. His next words were a little amused, but he didn't smile. "No, I'm not a psychic -- in the ordinary sense. I've visited your shop. I was there only yesterday," he said. And I remembered him. IN returning from my lunch I had met him coming out of my humble place of business. One glimpse into those brooding eyes was not a thing to soon forget, and I recalled pausing to watch his stiff-legged progress down the street and around the corner. There was now a pause, while I watched leaves scuttling along the oiled walk in the growling wind. Then a sound like a sigh came from companion. It seemed to me that the wind and the sea spoke loudly of a sudden, as the approaching some dire climax. The sea wind chilled me as it had not before. I wanted to leave. "Dare I tell you? DARE I!" His white face turned upward. It was as though he questioned some spirit in the winds. I was silent; curious, yet fearful of what it might be he might not be allowed to tell me. The winds were portentously still. "Were you ever told, as a child, that you must not attempt to count the stars in the sky at night -- that if you did you might lose your mind?" "Why, yes. I believe I've heard that old superstition. Very reasonable, I believe; based on the assumption that the task would be too great for one brain. I..." "I suppose it never occurred to you," he interrupted, "that this superstition might hold even more truth than that, truth as malignant as it is vast. Perhaps the cosmos hold secrets beyond comprehension of man; and what is your assurance that these secrets are beneficent and kind? Is nature rather not terrible, than kind? In the stars are