Charles Beaumont - Selected Stories Part 13

"You won't mind obliging us," he said, "by gathering up your things?"

"Gathering up our things?" I parroted, stupidly. "Why?"

"Because," he said, "we are going to put you off the s.h.i.+p."

Eileen grabbed my arm, but neither of us could think of a thing to say. I was vaguely conscious of the stillness of the boat, of the people in the room, staring at us.

"I'm very much afraid that I shall have to ask you to hurry," said the captain, "for it is getting rather late. The rescue vessel is already on its way, you see. You, uh, _do_ understand?"

"No," I said, slowly, "we don't. And we're certainly not going anywhere until we do."

Captain Protheroe drew up to his full height and glanced sharply at McKenzie. "Really," he said, "I should've thought you'd have antic.i.p.ated this."

McKenzie shrugged. "Didn't want to worry them."

"Indeed. And now we're in a mess, for, of course, we've no time at all for lengthly explanations."

"In that case," said Burgess, "let's skip them." His eyes were twinkling. "I rather think they'll understand eventually."

The captain nodded. He said. "Excuse me," walked out of the room, returned a moment later with a pistol. Then, aiming the pistol at me: "Sorry, but I must insist you do as we say. McKenzie, take this thing and see to it that the Ransomes are ready within ten minutes."

McKenzie nodded, brandished the gun. "Come along," he said. "And don't take it too hard, my boy."

He prodded us down to the cabin and kept waving the pistol until we'd packed our bags. He seemed hugely delighted with his new role.

"Now, gather up the life jackets and follow me."

We returned to the boat station, where almost everyone on the s.h.i.+p had gathered.

"Lower away!" cried the captain, and a useless-looking white lifeboat was cranked over the side.

"Now then, if you will please climb down that ladder . .

"For G.o.d's sake," I said. "This--"

"The _ladder_, Mr. Ransome. And do be careful!"

We clambered down into the lifeboat, which was rocking gently, and watched them raise the rope.

We could see the McKenzies, the Burgesses, Van Vlyman, Sanders and Captain Protheroe standing by the rail, waving. They had never looked so pleasant, so happy.

"Don't worry," one of them called, "you'll be picked up in no time at all. Plenty of water and food there; and a light. You're sure you have all your luggage?"

I heard the s.h.i.+p's engines start up again, and I yelled some idiotic things; but then the _Lady Anne_ began to pull away from us. The old people at the rail, standing very close to one another, waved and smiled and called: "Good bye! Good bye!"

"Come back!" I screamed, feeling, somehow, that none of this was actually happening. "d.a.m.n it, come back here!" Then Eileen touched my shoulder, and we sat there listening to the fading voices and watching the immense black hull drift away into the night.

It became suddenly very quiet, very still. Only the sound of water slapping against the lifeboat.

We waited. Eileen's eyes were wide; she was staring into the darkness, her hand locked tightly in mine.

"Shhh," she said.

We sat there for another few minutes, quietly, rocking; then there was a sound, soft at first, hollow, but growing.

"Alan!"The explosion thundered loose in a swift rus.h.i.+ng fury, and the water began to churn beneath us.

Then, as suddenly, it was quiet again.

In the distance I could see the s.h.i.+p burning. I could feel the heat of it. Only the stern was afire, though: all the rest of it seemed untouched--and I was certain, oddly certain that no one had been harmed by the blast.

Eileen and I held each other and watched as, slowly, as gracefully and purposefully, the _Lady Anne_ listed on her side. For an eternity she lay poised, then the dark ma.s.s of her slipped into the water as quickly and smoothly as a giant needle into velvet.

It could not have taken more than fifteen minutes. Then the sea was calm and as empty as it ever was before there were such things as s.h.i.+ps and men.

We waited for another hour in the lifeboat, and I asked Eileen if she felt cold but she said no.

There was a wind across the ocean, but my wife said that she had never felt so warm before.

Introduction to

LAST RITES.

by Richard Matheson

I have referred (in print) to Chuck Beaumont's stories with such phrases as "alight with the magic of a truly extraordinary imagination," "shot through with veins of coruscating wit," "feather light and dancing on a wind of jest" and "flashes of the wondrous and delightful."

All true; and this may well be the over-riding image of his work.

But there is more. Other stories which cut deeper. Which move the reader and speak of things profound.

Such a story is "Last Rites."

I don't know whether Chuck was raised as a Catholic. I don't think so but I'm not positive. I know he married a woman who was deeply committed to Catholicism. Perhaps his knowledge--and insight--into the religion came from his relations.h.i.+p with his wife Helen.

Wherever it came from, there is a sense of truth to it. For my money, Graham Greene never wrote a story any more perceptive about Catholicism than "Last Rites." I find it extremely moving, shot through not with "veins of coruscating wit" but with a deep vein of humanity and love.

What more could any reader ask of a story? What greater legacy could any writer leave?

LAST RITES.

by Charles Beaumont---------------------------- Somewhere in the church a baby was shrieking. Father Courtney listened to it, and sighed, and made the Sign of the Cross. Another battle, he thought, dismally.

Another grand tug of war. And who won this time, Lord? Me? Or that squalling infant, bless its innocence?

"In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

He turned and made his way down the pulpit steps, and told himself, Well, you ought to be used to it by now, Heaven knows. After all, you're a priest, not a monologist. What do you care about "audience reaction?" And besides, who ever listens to these sermons of yours, anyway--even under the best of conditions? A few of the ladies in the parish (though you're sure they never hear or understand a word), and, of course, Donovan. But who else?

Screech away, little pink child! Screech until you--no.

No, no. Ahhh!

He walked through the sacristy, trying not to think of Donovan, or the big city churches with their fine nurseries, and sound-proof walls, and amplifiers that amplified .

One had what one had: it was G.o.d's will.

And were things really so bad? Here there was the smell of forests, wasn't there? And in what city parish could you see wild flowers growing on the hills like bright lava? Or feel the earth breathing?

He opened the door and stepped outside.

The fields were dark-silver and silent. Far above the fields, up near the clouds, a rocket launch moved swiftly, dragging its slow thunder behind it.

Father Courtney blinked.

Of course things were not so bad. Things would be just fine, he thought, and I would not be nervous and annoyed at little children, if only-- Abruptly he put his hands together. "Father," he whispered, "let him be well. Let that be Your will!"

Then, deciding not to wait to greet the people, he wiped his palms with a handkerchief and started for the rectory.

The morning was very cold. A thin film of dew coated each pebble along the path, and made them all glisten like drops of mercury. Father Courtney looked at the pebbles and thought of other walks down this path, which led through a woods to Hidden River, and of himself laughing; of excellent wine and soft cus.h.i.+ons and himself arguing, arguing; of a thousand sweet hours in the past.

He walked and thought these things and did not hear the telephone until he had reached the rectory stairs.

A chill pa.s.sed over him, unaccountably.

He went inside and pressed a yellow switch. The screen blurred, came into focus. The face of an old man appeared, filling the screen.

"h.e.l.lo, Father."

"George!" the priest smiled and waved his fist, menacingly. "George, why haven't you contacted me?" He sputtered. "Aren't you out of that bed yet?"

"Not yet, Father."

"Well, I expected it, I knew it. Now will you let me call a doctor?"

"No--" The old man in the screen shook his head. He was thin and pale. His hair was profuse, but very white, and there was something in his eyes. "I think I'd like you to come over, if you could."

"I shouldn't," the priest said, "after the way you've been treating all of us. But, if there's still some of that Chianti left . . ."

George Donovan nodded. "Could you come right away?"

"Father Yos.h.i.+da won't be happy about it."

"Please. Right away."Father Courtney felt his fingers draw into fists. "Why?" he asked, holding onto the conversational tone. "Is anything the matter?"

"Not really," Donovan said. His smile was brief. "It's just that I'm dying."

"And I'm going to call Doctor Ferguson. Don't give me any argument, either. This nonsense has gone far--"

The old man's face knotted. "No," he said, loudly. "I forbid you to do that."

"But you're ill, man. For all we know, you're _seriously_ ill. And if you think I'm going to stand around and watch you work yourself into the hospital just because you happen to dislike doctors, you're crazy."

"Father, listen--please. I have my reasons. You don't understand them, and I don't blame you.

But you've got to trust me. I'll explain everything, if you'll promise me you won't call _anyone_."

Father Courtney breathed unsteadily; he studied his friend's face, Then he said, "I'll promise this much. I won't contact a doctor until I've seen you."

"Good." The old man seemed to relax. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"With your Little Black Bag?"

"Certainly not. You're going to be all right."

"Bring it, Father. Please. Just in case."

The screen blurred and danced and went white. Father Courtney hesitated at the blank telephone. Then he walked to a table and raised his fists and brought them down hard, once.

You're going to get well, he thought. It isn't going to be too late. Because if you are dying, if you really are, and I could have prevented it . . . He went to the closet and drew on his overcoat.

It was thick and heavy, but it did not warm him. As he returned to the sacristy he s.h.i.+vered and thought that he had never been so cold before in all his life.

The Helicar whirred and dropped quickly to the ground. Father Courtney removed the ignition key, pocketed it, and thrust his bulk out the narrow door, wheezing.

A dull rumbling sifted down from the sky. The wake of fleets a mile away, ten miles, a hundred.

_It's raining whales in our backyard_, the priest thought, remembering how Donovan had described the sound once to a little girl.

A freshet of autumn leaves burst against his leg, softly, and for a while he stood listening to the rockets' dying rumble, watching the shapes of gold and red that scattered in the wind, like fire.

Then he whispered, "Let it be Your will," and pushed the picket gate. The front door of the house was open.

He walked in, through the living-room, to the study.

"George."