Gormley's scalp was crawling now. 'Go on,' he said.
'I've talked to Keogh's girlfriend,' Harmon continued. 'She's a nice kid and dotes on him. And she won't hear a word against him. But in conversation she let it slip that he has this idea about something called a necroscope. It's something he presented to her as fiction, a figment of his own imagination. A necroscope, he told her, is someone — '
' — who can look in on the thoughts of the dead?' Gormley cut in.
'Yes,' the other sighed his relief. 'Exactly.'
'A spirit medium?'
'What? Why, yes, I suppose you could say that. But a real one, Keenan! A man who genuinely talks to the
dead! I mean, it's monstrous! I've actually seen him sitting there, writing — in the local graveyard!'
'Have you told anyone else?' Gormley's voice was sharp now. 'Does Keogh know what you suspect?'
'No.'
'Then don't breathe another word about this to a soul. Do you understand?'
'Yes, but — '
'No buts, Jack. This discovery of yours might be very important indeed, and I'm delighted you got in touch with me. But it must go no farther. There are people who could use it in entirely the wrong way.'
'You believe me, then, about this terrible thing?' the other's relief was plain. *I mean, is it even possible?'
'Possible, impossible — the longer I live the more I wonder just what might or mightn't be! Anyway, I can understand your concern, and it's right that you should be concerned. But as for this being "a terrible thing": I'm afraid I have to reserve my judgement on that. If you are correct, then this Harry Keogh of yours has a terrific talent. Just think how he might use it!'
'I shudder to think!'
'What? And you a headmaster? Shame on you, Jack!'
'I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I — '
'But wouldn't you yourself like the chance to talk to the greatest teachers, theorists and scientists of all time? To Einstein, Newton, Da Vinci, Aristotle?'
'My God!' the voice at the other end of the line almost choked. 'But surely that would be — I mean, quite literally — utterly impossible!'
'Yes, well you just keep believing that, Jack, and forget all about this conversation of ours, right?'
'But you — '
'Right, Jack?'
'Very well. What do you intend to — ?'
'Jack, I work for a very queer outfit, a very funny crowd. And even telling you that much is to tell you too much. However, you have my word that I'll look into this thing. And I want your word that this is your last word on it to anyone.'
'Very well, if you say so.'
Thanks for calling.'
'You're welcome. I — '
'Goodbye, Jack. We must talk again some time.'
'Yes, goodbye…'
Thoughtfully, Gormley put the phone down.
Dragosani had been 'back to school' for over three months, brushing up on his English. Now it was the end of July and he had returned to Romania — or Wallachia, as he now constantly thought of his homeland. His reason for being here was simple: despite any threats he made when last he visited, still he was aware that a year had passed, and that the old Thing in the ground had warned him that a year was all the time allowed. What he had meant exactly was beyond Dragosani to fathom, but of one thing he was certain: he must not let Thibor Ferenczy expire through any oversight on his part. If such an expiry was imminent, then the vampire might now be more willing to share a few more secrets with Dragosani in exchange for an extension on his undead life.
Because it had been getting late in the day when he drove through Bucharest, Dragosani had stopped at a village market to purchase a pair of live chickens in a wicker basket. These had gone under a light blanket on the floor in the back of his Volga. He had found lodgings in a farm standing on the banks of the Oltul, and having tossed his things into his room had come out immediately into the twilight and driven to the wooded cruciform ridge.
Now, at last light, he stood once more on the perimeter of the circle of unhallowed ground beneath the gloomy pines and surveyed again the tumbled tomb cut into the hillside, and the dark earth where grotesquely twisted roots stood up like a writhing of petrified serpents.
Past Bucharest he had tried to contact Thibor, to no
avail; for all that he'd concentrated on raising the old devil's mind from the slumber of centuries, there had been no answer. Perhaps, after all, he was too late. How long might a vampire lie, undead in the earth, without attention? For all Dragosani's many conversations with the creature, and for all that he had learned from Ladislau Giresci, still he knew so little about the Wamphyri. That was restricted knowledge, Thibor had told him, and must await the coming of Dragosani into the fraternity. Oh? The necromancer would see about that!
'Thibor, are you there?' he now whispered in the gloom, his eyes attuned to the shadows and penetrating the dusty miasma of the place. 'Thibor, I've come back — and I bring gifts!' At his feet the chickens huddled in their basket, their feet trussed; but no unseen presence moved in the darkness now, no cobweb fingers brushed his hair, no eager invisible muzzles sniffed at his essence. The place was dry, desiccated, dead. Dangling twigs snapped loudly at a touch and dust swirled where Dragosani placed his feet on the accumulated vegetable debris of centuries.
'Thibor,' he tried again. 'You told me a year. The year is past and I've returned. Am I too late? I've brought you blood, old dragon, to warm your old veins and give you strength again…'
Nothing.
Dragosani grew alarmed. This was wrong. The old Thing in the ground was always here. He was genius loci. Without him the place was nothing, the cruciform hills were empty. And what of Dragosani's dreams? Was that knowledge he had hoped to glean from the vampire gone forever?
For a moment he knew despair, anger, frustration, but then -
The trussed chickens in their basket stirred a little and
one of them made a low, worried clucking sound, A breeze whirred eerily in the higher branches over Dragosani's head. The sun dipped down behind distant hills. And something watched the necromancer from behind the gloom and the dust and the old, brittle branches. Nothing was there, but he felt eyes upon him. Nothing was different, but it seemed now that the place breathed!
It breathed, yes — but a tainted breath, which Dragosani liked not at all. He felt threatened, felt more in danger here than ever before. He picked up the basket and took two paces back from the unhallowed circle until he brought up against the rough bark of a great tree almost as old as the glade. He felt safer there, more solidly based, with that tough old tree behind him. The sudden dryness went out of his throat and he swallowed hard before enquiring again:
'Thibor, I know you're there. It's your loss, old devil, if you choose to ignore me.'
Again the wind soughed in the high branches, and with it a whisper crept into the necromancer's mind:
Dragosaaaniiii? Is it you? Ahhhh!
'It's me, yes', he eagerly answered. 'I've come to bring you life, old devil — or rather, to renew your undeath.'
Too late, Dragosani, too late. My time is come and I must answer the call of the dark earth. Even I, Thibor Ferenczy of the Wamphyri. My privations have been many and my spark has been allowed to burn too low. Now it merely flickers. What can you do for me now, my son? Nothing, I fear. It is finished…
'No, I can't believe that! I've brought life for you, fresh blood. Tomorrow there'll be more. In a few days you'll be strong again. Why didn't you tell me things were at such a pass? I was sure you cried wolf! How could you expect me to believe when all you've ever done is lie to me?'