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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 5, Fall 1943
Page 16
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bodiments of those names? Perhaps old Zickler knew. And others, from time to time. After all, those names and the rumors and the books do persist through the years, and where there is legend there is a basis of fact, if only it could be traced back through the eons." That was all I got from Bruce. But he didn't need to tell me more. For a long time I had been aware, disinterestedly, of his study of ancient lores. I knew he had in his library a certain shelf of old books, besides scores of fiction pieces on the subject. I had read a few of the fiction pieces, and was amused. Deep in my mind was the safe and comfortable knowledge that they were fiction and nothing more. But now I wasn't so sure, and I didn't feel so safe. Perhaps all that fiction, after all, had been based on -- on something I didn't like to think of. My vague perturbation was enhanced by the way Bruce had said those words: "But now--my god, I'm beginning to believe again!" Just how much Bruce believed, I don't know. Nor what he was trying to learn, nor why he left his room that night. I doubt now if I could have acted in any way to stop him, even if I had known. The one fact I see clearly now is that neither of us then realized how slowly and insidiously everything was building up to that tragic climax...... That night after supper, Bruce went upstairs to his room---intending, he said, to look more carefully into those ancient books. I stepped outdoors to smoke my pipe; somehow I always enjoy it more outdoors and at night--it helps me to think, and that's what I needed to do. In a muddled sort of way I was trying to decide how much of this "ancient lore" business I dared, and how much I feared, to believe. I only knew that I liked this place less and less, and if Bruce didn't want to leave in the morning, I would take the car myself. Finding I was nearly out of tobacco, I walked down to Lyle Wilson's store. The place was dark. I stepped onto the porch and was about to try the door, thinking perhaps he hadn't locked up yet; but then I decide he must be in bed, and had better wait until morning. I stepped off the porch and was almost out to the road again, when I heard his front door open. I turned, and was about to call out to him ....when something stopped me. It may have been partially intuition, but mainly it was Lyle's actions. I could see him only dimly, and apparently he did not see me at all. But the way he closed his door every so softly, and crept furtively across the porch interested me. He disappeared around the corner of his store, and I followed. He passed through a gate at the rear of his property, crossed a field, climbed a low fence into another field. I stayed a safe distance behind him, just keeping him in sight. i could barely make out something that he carried under his arm--apparently a thick book; undoubtedly the diary that both he and Bruce seemed so interested in. I soon saw that he was heading for the ravine. Undoubtedly he had travelled this route before, because he seemed very sure of his direction and seemed to be heading for a certain point. I lost him in the dark for a moment, hurried forward, bumped into the low-hanging branches of a tree and scratched my face. When I reached the ravine he had disappeared entirely, but I could hear him faintly as he climbed down some path near by. I searched for a few minutes; finally finding it, I descended. Rather, I skidded, rolled and tumbled down that steep path in the dark, arriving at the bottom by the simple expedient of plunging head first the last five feet. I arose and brushed off my clothes. By that time, Lyle Wilson had disappeared entirely. I couldn't hear a sound, couldn't even guess which direction he'd taken. And if the night were dark before, it was positively Stygian at the bottom of this ravine. As disgruntled as I was puzzled, I tried to climb back up the path. But I couldn't. I stood there for a minute, nursing my bruises and cursing myself for a fool. Then I remembered that the ravine became shallower until it led out by the edge of the graveyard a quarter of a mile away. The only thing to do was follow it in that direction. After all, I decide, I might come upon Wilson again. But I didn't see him. Once I stopped, thinking I heard the sound of metal striking on meta, but I didn't hear it again. I proceeded in the dark, avoiding -- 16 --
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bodiments of those names? Perhaps old Zickler knew. And others, from time to time. After all, those names and the rumors and the books do persist through the years, and where there is legend there is a basis of fact, if only it could be traced back through the eons." That was all I got from Bruce. But he didn't need to tell me more. For a long time I had been aware, disinterestedly, of his study of ancient lores. I knew he had in his library a certain shelf of old books, besides scores of fiction pieces on the subject. I had read a few of the fiction pieces, and was amused. Deep in my mind was the safe and comfortable knowledge that they were fiction and nothing more. But now I wasn't so sure, and I didn't feel so safe. Perhaps all that fiction, after all, had been based on -- on something I didn't like to think of. My vague perturbation was enhanced by the way Bruce had said those words: "But now--my god, I'm beginning to believe again!" Just how much Bruce believed, I don't know. Nor what he was trying to learn, nor why he left his room that night. I doubt now if I could have acted in any way to stop him, even if I had known. The one fact I see clearly now is that neither of us then realized how slowly and insidiously everything was building up to that tragic climax...... That night after supper, Bruce went upstairs to his room---intending, he said, to look more carefully into those ancient books. I stepped outdoors to smoke my pipe; somehow I always enjoy it more outdoors and at night--it helps me to think, and that's what I needed to do. In a muddled sort of way I was trying to decide how much of this "ancient lore" business I dared, and how much I feared, to believe. I only knew that I liked this place less and less, and if Bruce didn't want to leave in the morning, I would take the car myself. Finding I was nearly out of tobacco, I walked down to Lyle Wilson's store. The place was dark. I stepped onto the porch and was about to try the door, thinking perhaps he hadn't locked up yet; but then I decide he must be in bed, and had better wait until morning. I stepped off the porch and was almost out to the road again, when I heard his front door open. I turned, and was about to call out to him ....when something stopped me. It may have been partially intuition, but mainly it was Lyle's actions. I could see him only dimly, and apparently he did not see me at all. But the way he closed his door every so softly, and crept furtively across the porch interested me. He disappeared around the corner of his store, and I followed. He passed through a gate at the rear of his property, crossed a field, climbed a low fence into another field. I stayed a safe distance behind him, just keeping him in sight. i could barely make out something that he carried under his arm--apparently a thick book; undoubtedly the diary that both he and Bruce seemed so interested in. I soon saw that he was heading for the ravine. Undoubtedly he had travelled this route before, because he seemed very sure of his direction and seemed to be heading for a certain point. I lost him in the dark for a moment, hurried forward, bumped into the low-hanging branches of a tree and scratched my face. When I reached the ravine he had disappeared entirely, but I could hear him faintly as he climbed down some path near by. I searched for a few minutes; finally finding it, I descended. Rather, I skidded, rolled and tumbled down that steep path in the dark, arriving at the bottom by the simple expedient of plunging head first the last five feet. I arose and brushed off my clothes. By that time, Lyle Wilson had disappeared entirely. I couldn't hear a sound, couldn't even guess which direction he'd taken. And if the night were dark before, it was positively Stygian at the bottom of this ravine. As disgruntled as I was puzzled, I tried to climb back up the path. But I couldn't. I stood there for a minute, nursing my bruises and cursing myself for a fool. Then I remembered that the ravine became shallower until it led out by the edge of the graveyard a quarter of a mile away. The only thing to do was follow it in that direction. After all, I decide, I might come upon Wilson again. But I didn't see him. Once I stopped, thinking I heard the sound of metal striking on meta, but I didn't hear it again. I proceeded in the dark, avoiding -- 16 --
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