College teachers -- Fiction; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales; Spouses -- Fiction; Witches -- Fiction
The meal was a very simple one, almost ascetic. He did not look across
the table as he ate. There was something worse than animal greediness
about that methodical feeding. After the meal he put the left-overs
into a small cardboard box, covered them with a napkin he had used to
wipe all the dishes clean, and placed the box in his suitcase beside
an envelope containing clippings from his own fingernails. The sight
of the clean breakfast dishes had been one of the things which had
helped to disturb the first waiter, but Norman was determined to adhere
strictly to a complete set of taboos. They were an odd assortment,
gleaned from his memories of Negro, Polynesian, and Indian practices.
Of course, there might be no protection gained by observing taboos.
But then again there might be. So he collected food fragments, saw to
it that no knives or other sharp instruments pointed toward them, had
them sleep with their heads nearest the engine and their destination,
and enforced a number of other minor regulations. Eating in private
satisfied still another taboo, but there was more than one reason for
that.
He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until Hempnell. He had
not realized they were quite so close. There was the faint sense of
an almost physical resistance from that region, as if the air were
thickening. And his mind was tossing with a multitude of problems yet
to be considered.
* * * * *
Deliberately turning his back, he said, "According to the myths, souls
may be imprisoned in all sorts of ways--in boxes, in knots, in animals,
in stones. Have you any ideas on this subject?"
As he feared, this particular question brought the usual irrelevant
response. The answering words had the same dull persistence.
"I want my soul."
His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened. This was why he had
avoided the question until now. Yet he had to know more, if that were
possible.
"But where exactly should we look for it?"
"I want my soul."
"Yes." It was hard for him to control his voice. "But how, precisely,
might it be hidden? It will help if I know."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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