CHAPTER ELEVEN-B

(Author's Note:  Though this Madam Z story stands on its own and was actually published some years before Our Enemy Ourselves was finished, its events both tie into and take place concurrently with those of OEO.  It is therefore considered Chapter 11-B of OEO.)

    Rain fell from the dawn sky, chopping the surface of New Auckland Harbor and scattering the reflection of what little light was able to reach it.  The rain seemed to ooze down upon the city, making those beneath it feel sad and more than a little bit afraid.  It was the sort of rain that one could very well expect something dark and nasty to slither from.  Or, even more horribly, to walk. 

    Fishermen turned their boats seaward, moving east, past the boardwalk.  They were assured that their catch would not come easily today.  And then they were gone and the pier was deserted.  In fact, at this early hour, the only sign of any activity at all was a single light shining from the front picture window of a small building nestled among the bait-shops and tourist traps of the harbor district. 

    The building itself was an ancient structure composed of dingy, chipped, gray bricks held together by cracked and decaying mortar.  A sign of cloudy brass hung above the front door of the building.  It read simply, Antiques.  The light from the shop's picture window poured out and mingled with the rain on the boardwalk.  Just inside the window, in a large, brown La-Z-Boy recliner, sat an old woman, drinking black coffee from a simple pottery mug.  Her thinning, silver hair was pulled back in a bun, held in place with a silver pin.  Intense, brown eyes peered through the wire-framed relics which sat on her nose.  On her lap rested a withered, wooden cane with a knobby, tarnished, silver grip.  A liver-spotted hand extended from the thick folds of her patterned robe and caressed the cane as she stared out into the gloom.  A stout dog sat beside her chair and gnawed at a flea on its paw before looking up again at the rain.  Its exact breed was uncertain—though the word mastiff flowed naturally into the minds of those who saw it.  It was a muscular dog with black fur that blended into a reddish color on its underside. 

    It was the old woman's daily ritual to sit before the picture window while she had her morning coffee and contemplate what the day would bring to her.  It was the dog's daily ritual to sit beside the old woman's chair and wait patiently to be fed. 

    "This day is silent to me, Ursa," she said, sipping the last of her coffee.  The dog's ears twitched at the sound of its name. 

    The woman lifted her bony, robed frame from the depths of the chair and straightened to the symphony popping joints.  A scowl crossed her face.  She aimed it toward the window.  After a moment, the old woman looked down at the dog.

    "On your guard," she said gravely. 

    The dog sniffed in reply.

    "Come on then, dog," the old woman said walking over a large green stain on the floor and moving toward the rear of the shop.  "Let's see to your breakfast." 
 

    Ursa munched on the dry dog-food from her metal dish, occasionally pausing to slurp some water from the accompanying bowl.  The old woman, as was her custom, filled her coffee mug a second time and left the kitchen.  Ursa followed her to the door and watched as the old woman walked down the infinite hallway and disappeared into one of its rooms.  The dog continued looking for a moment, an eyebrow raised, before returning to her food.  Only once had Ursa followed the old woman on her morning activities.  It had not been an experience that she cared to repeat.  Ursa was an extremely faithful dog, who would fight to the death to protect her master, but she had long since learned that there were some things in this world that were, simply put, out of a dog's league. 

    On days when the old woman spent her time in the rooms, Ursa was usually content to nap in the sun in front of the picture window.  There was no sun this day, however, so the throw rug in front of the stove was where she would be found.  And there she slept for most of an hour, her dreams filled with images of toothsome creatures springing at her from behind closed doors. 

    The dog was awakened by a sound from the front of the shop.  It was the sound of feet falling onto wooden floor boards.  Two pairs of them.  They fell only once. 

    Ursa crept from the kitchen.  The smell of brimstone was crisp in the air as she peered into the main room of the shop.  What she saw there brought up her ire.  Beyond the tables and shelves, standing just inside the front entrance of the shop, were two men of ghoulish appearance.  The tall one was grinning. 

    The dog's fur bristled instantly and her lips pulled back to reveal her own teeth.  She began barking furiously.  They had an all too familiar air of danger about them.

    In the distance, behind the dog, a door creaked open and from it stepped the old woman.  She walked toward the hall door, cane in hand, until she passed the dog and entered the front room of the shop.  She halted beside an immense clay statue with a wooden-handled ax protruding from its head.  Ursa gave a final gruff bark.  Her master was here and things would be taken care of.

    The old woman stared with irritated eyes at the two men.

    "The shop is not open for business," she said.  "I would have thought the locked door would have told you as much."

    The taller of the two men took a step forward and turned his smile at her.  He appeared as though he had stepped directly from a particularly disturbing Hammer film starring Christopher Lee.  His clothing was entirely black; a fancy-looking suit underneath a leather overcoat the surface of which looked to be wet and scaly.  A single, blood rose rotted in his lapel and an immense black fedora rested above his ashen face.  He tipped the hat and bowed before the old woman.

    "My mistake, dear lady.  I'm afraid that I rarely use doors these days.  Otherwise I might have noticed."  He replaced his hat and straightened it on his head, smiling all the while.

    The shorter man, if you could call him a man, began to snicker.  His appearance was remarkable only in that it was suspiciously similar to that of Peter Lorre.  In fact, except for the gleaming red eyes and the fact that he reached a height of only three and a half feet, he was an exact replica of the late actor.  He wore a tight, algae-green suit, which failed to fit his lumpy body, and wore a small black derby hat.  He continued to laugh in a high pitched gurgle until he noticed Ursa's snarling approach, at which point he darted behind the tall man's legs, his red eyes wide with fear.

    The old woman followed her pet into the front room, moving past the dusty shelves piled high with books and trinkets of a bygone era.  Her expression flashed briefly from irritation to anger before settling into a moderately-inflamed vexed. 

    The tall man's tight lips broke into a wide and mirthless grin.  It was the kind of death-row-brand smile that takes a very long time to master. 

    "Can I help you?" the old woman asked.

    The tall man continued to smile at her.  "You might be able to, at that," he said.  "I take it that you are the owner of this particular shop?"  She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.  His eyes brightened.  "Ah!  Then you would be Madam Z, would you not?"

    "What of it?" 

    "Allow me to introduce myself.  I am called Bisley.  And this," he said indicating the small man behind his legs, "is my associate Mr. Ramond."  The short man tipped his hat and flashed his red eyes briefly in her direction before quickly returning them to the still snarling dog. 

    "Let me just say what a pleasure it is to finally meet you," said Bisley, extending his gloved claw for the old woman to shake.  She did not even look at it and after a moment he coolly withdrew it.  He turned and began a slow stroll past one of the many shelves of books that lined the walls of the shop.  He began trailing his fingers along the spines of the books, some of which had been out of print for well over two-hundred years and a scant few of which had never been touched by a mechanical printing press at all. 

    "You have a quaint little place here," he said, pausing with customary distaste before saying the word quaint.  His eyes passed over the book Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carol, which rested haphazardly beside an equally fragile copy of The Thousand Shades of Evil, by Dargnac Sable.  "It isn't really the kind of place in which I had pictured a person of your status to reside.  But then," he added casting her a side-glance, "that was your intention, was it not?"  She remained silent.  He pursed his lips briefly and continued.  "You know, Madam, you are an extremely enigmatic person in the circles in which I travel.  Oh, the tales I have heard," he grinned, continuing his circle of the room, Mr. Ramond close in tow.  "It seems that for an earth-woman, you are something of a legend in parts beyond.  I've been told that you used to...  Oh, how did that one put it?  `Hang with the big boys.'"  He looked down at his comrade.  "You would say that Jacob Sand, Kindred Spirit, Drenn, or even Mologox were among the big boys, wouldn't you, Mr. Ramond?" 

    Mr. Ramond giggled obscenely.

    "Yes, I would say so too."  Bisley looked back to the old woman.  "You and your friends dealt with Mologox rather effectively, I would say.  No, we won't be hearing much from him in the foreseeable future, will we?"

    The old woman licked her bottom lip.  "You listen to too many rumors, Bisley."

    "Rumors?" he beamed.  "Oh, yes.  I have heard rumors.  Quite a few, in fact."  He strolled along the far wall to a set of open double-cabinets filled with dust-covered bottles and glass colanders that contained odd substances.  Only a few of the bottles were labeled.  Bisley toyed with one that appeared to contain a small cloud. 

    "Did you know," he said, "that some say you are actually thousands of years old?  That you are some sort of witch, surviving through the ages by spells and magicks.  Some suggest you to be an angel on some kind of divine leave of absence?  Of course, some say just the opposite.  There is another school of thought, that believes you are merely an empowered mortal.  In fact, a few of those I've interviewed have gone so far as to swear that they were present at your birth into this world, nearly a century and a half ago.  None of them could manage to agree on a specific date or birthplace, of course, but that is to be expected."  He replaced the bottle and turned, walking back around the tables, toward her.  "There's even a preposterous rumor that you work as a carnival fortune teller one day out of every year."  He chuckled coolly, joined by Mr. Ramond's gurgling snicker.  The short man's laugh sounded like someone—perhaps Peter Lorre—being drowned. 

    The old woman did not laugh.  "What business do you and your Syndicate have with me, Wise One?"

    Bisley looked momentarily surprised.  "`Wise one?'  Ah!  You are familiar with our organization then?"  He brought a flat hand to his forehead with a smack.  "What could I have been thinking?  Of course you know of us!  You are, after all, the legendary Madam Z!"  He paused for a moment and put a finger to his lip.  "I am, of course, assuming that you are still calling yourself that.  I must admit, with the frequency your name changes it is rather difficult for even one of my talents to keep current."

    "Answer my question," she said, her hands tightening their grip on her cane, her voice as steel. 

    A brief look of fear crossed the tall man's face.  He looked down at Mr. Ramond who stopped cowering long enough to look back up at him and smile.  The tall man's grin broke through his expression of concern and he was again the smooth character of before.  "My business, dear lady, is a proposition."

    "I make no deals with your kind," she interrupted. 

    Bisley allowed his eyes to slowly blink.  "It is one that I am most certain you will accept... dear lady."

     "You are unwelcome here."

    Bisley leaned forward and his gray, serious eyes stared into her dire, narrow ones.  "You should at least hear me out.  I have invested a considerable amount of my time and effort to come here.  I would like very much to tell you my proposal."

    The old woman pointed her cane toward the door.  "Leave." 

    Bisley did not leave.  He continued to smile, casually allowing his fingers to drag along the surface of a nearby globe, digging trenches in the dust over a continent that no longer exists.  "Madam Z, I believe that you and I are very much alike.  Oh, yes, on the surface we may be very different—our methods quite diverse—but at heart we are both simply information brokers.  We both know a great deal about how the universe really works and we both keep a close eye on the various major players in the grand game of existence.  Who does what to whom, and so forth.  We know the big secrets."  He paused briefly in smile.  "Secrets, dear lady, have power.  You are no doubt aware that there is a developing market for people in our line of work in the area of revenge maintenance.  There are, for instance, a plethora of beings throughout this universe who, shall we say, have it in for other beings.  The trouble with this is that ours is a very big universe.  Very big indeed.  And there are all sorts of places, planes, times and realms in which the potential targets of revenge may hide.  This can make things very difficult on the revenge-minded soul.  That is where my services come in.  I find the people who don't wish to be found. 

    "But, you already know that.  After all, I found you."

    The old woman yawned loudly at him.  "Get on with it, Bisley."

    His smile lapsed briefly, but he managed to summon it back in an even higher curve.  "Mine can be very slow and tiresome work.  My clients may have to wait a considerable amount of time before I am able to find their prey.  If they wait too long, they might cool off and decide to find other avenues of entertainment. 

    "This is where I propose you come in, Madam Z."

    Her sour expression remained constant.

    "The word is, you are among the best at rooting out hidden information.  Regardless of how many wild tales about you I have had to sit through, there are two things that have always remained consistent.  The first is that you are an extremely knowledgeable person when it comes to the mystic hustles and bustles of our universe.  They say you can see into forgotten times and into times yet to be forgotten.  They say you can open doorways into these times.  They say you hold a tremendous amount of power." 

    "Is that why you brought the null-imp?" she said, with a nod in Mr. Ramond's direction.  The short man's high-pitched voice tittered to life and he tipped his hat to her, causing Ursa to snarl.  Bisley's smile broadened some more.  "Convenient," she said.

    "I'm certain that he's far from necessary," Bisley assured.  "I was simply, as they say, covering all of my bases.  I was told that you did not like being disturbed.  In fact, that is the second point on which all of my sources consistently agreed."

    The old woman rapped her cane sharply on the wooden floor, sending a jolt through her visitors.  "Bisley," she said in an irritated tone.  "Let me save you the energy and breath of explaining yourself further, for I can see that you extremely impressed with your own oratory ability."  She waited for his theatrical pained expression to subside before continuing.  "You came here in order to persuade me to join forces with you.  Something along the lines of `your skill and my knowledge making an invincible team?'"

    "The rumors of your perceptive proficiency have not..." 

    "Oh, do shut up," she said.  Her facial expression was similar to that of a mathematician whose year-long apprentice has just achieved the figure of nineteen from the sum of one and nine.  "You came here to get me to work with you.  That is the bottom line, is it not?"

    "It is, indeed."  Bisley reached into the interior of his glistening, black coat and pulling forth an equally black envelope.  "I hope you do not mind, but I have taken the liberty of drawing up a writ of retainment."  He slid from the envelope a sheet of brittle papyrus on which generally unintelligible slashes had been marked in an odd coppery color.  "This document explains, basically, that you would be held on retainer and would be entitled..."

    "I do not care."

    Bisley looked up from the document.  "Come again?"

    The old woman gripped her cane and brought it sailing through the air, halting it's tip directly in front of the tall one's nose.  "I will not do business with you or your kind!" she hissed, and to emphasize her point, she gave his nose a sharp jab with the cane.  "Now, Wise One," she said, her voice returning to the soft intensity of before, "I would advise you to listen carefully to my next words, for they will contain wisdom."  She jabbed his nose again before swinging the cane around to point at the door.  "Get out." 

    Bisley stared at the old woman with his deeply gray eyes, his mouth a tight thin curve.  After a brief moment, the lips opened partially to allow a chuckle to pass through.  It began to grow.  And as the laugh grew, so did his mouth.  His smile expanded across his face into a hideous, toothsome wall, his eyes dancing above it.  Then the wall opened and his gale-force laughter burst from it.  The unholy sound grew in intensity as the tall man's jaws became a spreading cavern, his features pushing aside to make room.  Beneath the foul laughter was a grotesque whistling, like that of a sick animal's labored breath and accompanying it was the gurgling titter of Mr. Ramond and a sudden burst of thunder from the sky above.

    Ursa, who had begun snarling viciously at the tall man's first chuckle, now gave a low whine that was drowned out by the cacophony.  She looked up at her master for assurance.  The old woman stood firmly in place by the brown La-Z Boy recliner, her expression of dull anger never once faltering, her cane still held, pointing to the door. 

    With one final, tremendous roar, Bisley cut his laughter and all was silent except the echoes from the infinite hallway.  His grinning mouth returned to its previous size and he wiped a single green tear from the corner of one eye. 

    "My dear," he said in a soft, snake-like voice, "you do not seem to understand your situation.  There is no choice in this matter." 

    The old woman sighed heavily.  Her voice was quite calm.  "You dare to come into my home and threaten me?" 

    "Oh, yes," he said, his eyes practically ablaze with vile glee.  "I dare to threaten you!  I told you before that secrets have power.  And I hold your greatest secret in the palm of my hand.  I can threaten you all I please because of one tiny bit of knowledge that I possess."  He leaned forward until they were eye to eye.  "I know where you live!"  The sky rumbled forth as lightning struck nearby.  "How many others can honestly say that?"

    The old woman scowled at Bisley.  Undaunted, he continued.

    "Oh, you have hidden yourself quite well.  Remarkably so.  And according to a particular source of mine, you have moved your shop's location quite a few times over the years.  I would also imagine you have all number of devices to prevent mystically inclined beings from noticing it.  But then, such devices do not work when one has a null imp on one's side.  And neither do your powers." 

    He walked over to the picture window and peered through it, arms crossed on his chest.  "You, dear lady, have made some considerable enemies in your time.  There are beings in this universe who would, I dare say, give to me my heart's desire simply for the knowledge of the continent on which you reside.  What more would they offer me to give them your address and telephone number?  Make no mistake about it, my dear, I now hold the power."  He allowed himself a triumphant chortle.

    The old woman sighed, moved to her recliner and sat down.  She looked up at him from her seat and her face resolved itself into an expression of held anger. 

    "And so the truth of the matter comes up then, does it?" she said.  "I do what you say or you'll spread it to the stars that I live in an antiques shop in Wellington, Virginia?  And this will bring about my destruction at the hands of my enemies."

    The triumphant smile beamed from Bisley's face.  "You grasp the situation well, my dear."

    "You know, you're all alike," she said, pulling the lever on the side of the chair and reclining it.  "You and those who've come before you.  All alike."

    "Are we now?"

    "Oh, yes."  She gave him a scolding look.  "Did you truly think you were the first one to come here and make threats at me?" 

    Bisley frowned.  Mr. Ramond stood, feverishly wringing his hands, his eyes continuing their nervous twinkle.

    "Oh, they're always so very smart, coming in here gloating about how they've finally found me and how I'm now bound to serve them.  But they never quite think things through completely.  Because if they ever did they wouldn't make the same stupid mistake every time."

    His grin twitched.  "And just what mistake might that be?  What indeed?" 

    "Believing me powerless."

    Bisley's grin shot back to its previous strength, its edges turned down in mocking anger. 

    "You withered old prune, you are powerless!  You couldn't conjure the energy to light a match!  What will you do?  Beat me with your cane?"

    Mr. Ramond cackled.

    Now it was the old woman's turn to laugh.  "You really did think you were the first to come here, didn't you?" 

    "Enough games!  I am tired of this!"  Bisley took a ghastly, taloned pen from his pocket and held it and the ancient-looking paper out for the old woman to take.  "The writ, if you please." 

    "Allow me to demonstrate how powerless I am, Bisley."  The old woman put her thin hands behind her head and lay back in the chair.  "I can put a halt to your plans without even moving from my chair."

    "You are beaten!" he screamed, a bit of fear beneath his voice. 

    "In fact," she said, "I can stop you with three little words." 

    "Incantations won't save you now!"

    "Not an incantation," said the old woman, her mouth smiling slyly.   "Simply a command."

    "And what would this command be?"

    The old woman's face beamed with a mixture of contempt and pleasure.  Her gray head lay back in her hands on the padded rest and with her exceptionally strong voice, for one of her obvious years, she said the words 

    "Ursa,  get him."

    There was the briefest of pauses during which no sound was made.  In this moment, Bisley's grinning, Cheshire-cat face, suddenly lost its will to remain intact.  His pale eyes grew large and a look of terrific horror crossed his face. 

    A remarkably similar expression crossed the fat face of Mr. Ramond.  His jaw began to piston and he looked as though he might cry.

    The expression that crossed the canine face of Ursa at that moment was one of pure joy.

    There came a great snarl followed by the sound of dog claws scraping on wooden boards as Ursa leapt at Mr. Ramond.  He uttered a porcine squeal and began flailing his arms to fend off the dog.  With a sudden thud, Ursa landed on him, sending his Peter Lorre body crashing to the floor.  Mr. Ramond began to scream again but this was abruptly cut off as the dog clamped its jaws around his throat and began to shake him violently.  His smoldering red eyes bulged with fear and he began feebly clawing at the dog's fur, trying somehow to throw the beast from him.  As Mr. Ramond struggled, his form began to shift and change giving off quick glimpses of something green and slug-like with red stabbing eyes frozen in terror.  There was a quick snap as his neck went, and his illusory appearance vanished.  There followed a vile hissing as Mr. Ramond's bloated green body deflated, sending streams of black liquid onto the floorboards and darkening the dog's muzzle.  Ursa dropped the husk which melted into the pool of blackness leaving only ill-smelling fumes. 

    Bisley looked at the rapidly deteriorating thing on the floor with disbelieving eyes, his mouth agape, his grin gone forever. 

    "The same stupid mistake," said the old woman, sneering at him from her chair.  "Null-imps don't work when they're dead."

    Bisley tried to form words but none came forth.  He looked with fear at the old woman as she unfolded her hands from beneath her head and sat up in her chair.  He bolted for the door, clawing at its handle to no avail.  It was firmly locked.  He continued to pull at it until the creaking of the La-Z-Boy caused him to glance over his shoulder. 

    The old woman was standing now.  She reached down and gave her dog a pat on the head.  "There's a can of ALPO in the kitchen for you, Ursa.  I'll be in directly."  The dog licked its lips and bounded toward the infinite hallway. 

    Bisley began to whimper as the old woman turned her full attention to him.  She held her cane tightly in both hands.  Her eyes twinkled with anger. 

    "Now, Mr. Bisley, I think it's time I taught you a thing or two about power.  I have several points to make," she said, moving slowly toward him.  "But when I am finished, I think that you will only be able to recall two of them."

    Bisley's screams were barely audible over the din of the pouring rain outside.
 

 

Copyright © 1993 Mister Herman's Production Company, Ltd.