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"Thanks," said Neil, and climbed onto the jetty. He walked quickly under a sky
that was hazy but cloudless, and he wiped the sweat from his face with the
back of his hand.
Inside the fish market, there was a sweet, salty smell of crabs and flounders
and bass, and the telephone was sticky with scales. He picked it up and said,
"Yes?"
"Neil Fenner? This is Harry Erskine. Listen, I have some news for you."
"News? What kind of news?"
"Bad news, mainly. I talked this morning to John Singing Rock out in South
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Dakota. He's a medicine man, you know? But a modern one. I mean, he knows all
the old spells but he tries to apply them in an up-to-date way."
"What did he say?"
"He said that he'd heard of the day of the dark stars, and he was sure that
what you told me was genuine." Neil switched the receiver from one ear to the
other. "Is that all? He's sure I'm genuine? Listen, I wouldn't have called you
if I hadn't been genuine. I wouldn't have known your name, even. There was no
way I practically got myself killed because of an overworked imagination."
"You sure didn't," said Harry. He sounded as if he were sucking cough drops.
"The day of the dark stars is supposed to be mentioned in stories that were
handed down by tribes from all over America. Most Indians have heard of it,
apparently-either from their parents or their grandparents, but there aren't
many Indians today who can remember what it's all supposed to signify. They've
gotten themselves too integrated, you know? Even Singing Rock sells insurance
on the side."
"Did he say what I could do about it? The trouble I have here is that nobody
believes me, not even my wife. Nobody else saw the wooden man but me, and
they're putting the children's nightmares down to hysteria, or indigestion.
Everybody thinks I'm going crazy."
"You're not. Singing Rock says that the Hopi have stories about the day of the
dark stars, and so do the Oglala Sioux and the Modoc and the Cheyenne and the
Wyandotte. The Paiute used to call it the day when the mouth would come out of
the sky and devour the white devils, but they always were kind of wordy."
"So what can I do?" asked Neil. "Can I exorcise these manitous, or what?"
"Not with a bell and a book and a candle. I learned from the last time I met
Misquamacus that you can't dismiss Red Indian demons with white man's
religion."
"But how did you destroy Misquamacus before?"
"It's pretty hard to explain. But Singing Rock says we just don't have the
same kind of situation here at all, and he doesn't think we could manage a
repeat performance. Last time, Misquamacus was weak and confused and on his
own. This time, it sounds as if he's strong, and on his own territory."
"You don't sound very optimistic, Harry."
'I'm supposed to sound optimistic? You call me up and tell me twenty-two
Indian spirits are after my blood, and I'm supposed to sound optimistic?"
"I'm sorry," Neil put in hastily. "What I meant was, it sounds like we don't
have an easy way out of this."
"Listen," said Harry, "I'm going to fly out to San Francisco on Sunday
morning, which is the earliest I can get away. Singing Rock is coming out from
South Dakota, and he says he should get to California by Monday morning at the
latest."
"You're actually coming out to help? Well, that's terrific."
"Neil," said Harry, "we're coming out because we faced Misquamacus before. If
we hadn't, we would have put you down as a crank, just like everyone else has.
But the last time we faced him we came about as close to the happy hunting
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grounds as I ever want to get, and I don't want that to happen again. This
time, I want to face him forewarned and forearmed, and I want to make sure
that he doesn't have a chance to conjure up any of those demons that jump out
at you and bite your head off."
"Are you joking?"
"Do I sound as if I'm joking?"
Neil stepped aside to let a fishmonger pass with a barrow of fresh blue-green
lobsters.
"No," he said. "You don't sound as though you're joking at all."
"Okay," replied Harry. "Now, this is what Singing Rock wants you to do. He
wants you to keep a close watch on your son, and he wants you to make sure
that he doesn't go off on his own this weekend. Do whatever you have to
do-take him bowling, or swimming, or whatever it is you people do out at
Bodega Bay. Just don't let him out of your sight. And one more thing. Make
sure that he doesn't get together with any of his classmates from school. If
you can go and get him out of school right now-so much the better. Singing
Rock says that before the twenty-two wonder-workers can emerge, they have to
go through some kind of performance with lizards or something, and they have
to do it all together."
"Lizards?" frowned Neil.
"Don't ask me," said Harry. "I know as much about Indian magic as I do about
dancing the Highland fling. Apparently, the medicine men do something
repulsive with lizards."
"Okay," said Neil. "I'll do what I can."
"There's something else," Harry put in. "If you think that Misquamacus is
really starting to get a grip on your son-if your son starts talking like
Misquamacus and looking as though his face is changing-then call me right
away. If it gets really bad, then get the hell out of there."
"But what about Toby? If it does get bad, what's going to happen to him?"
"It's pretty hard to say. He might have a chance of survival. But if you and
your wife stay around too long, you're going to find yourselves in much worse
danger than him."
"What kind of danger? What are you talking about? What do I have to look for?"
"You don't have to look for anything," said Harry dryly. "Whatever it is, it's
going to come looking for you."
He met Doughty on the jetty. The old man was sitting on the front bumper of
Neil's pickup, smoking his pipe. Neil said hi.
Doughty stood up. He questioned, "Did you hear the news?"
Neil shook his head. "What news?"
"Billy Ritchie died this morning. I thought you might have heard."
Neil felt cold with shock. "He died? How did it happen? He looked fit enough
to me, apart from his legs."
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"His house was burned out," said Doughty. "His neighbor said it was a freak
stroke of lightning, sent the whole place up like a bonfire."
"Lightning? We haven't had an electric storm for weeks."
"I know. But that's what the neighbor said. The whole place was sent up like a
bonfire. Poor old Billy, not having the use of his legs, was trapped in his
living room. Burned to death, black cat and all."
Neil swallowed, and his throat was as dry as a nylon rug. The day seemed
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