Read Online (1972) The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Horror
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half of Europe.
“Up, boys, up; no pause, no rest, run!”
Bong!
Help!
They ran. They began to fall with each step, but again and again and
again steps came in place and saved them and ran them taller so the
shadow of the spires loomed tall across rivers and fields to snuff the
last witch fires at crossroads. Crones, hags, wise men, demon lovers, a
thousand miles off, snuffed like candles, whiffed to smoke, wailed and
sank to hide as the church leaned, tilted across the heavens.
“So even as the Romans cut down druid trees and chopped their God of
the Dead to fall, we now with this church, boys, cast such a shadow as
knocks all witches off their stilts, and puts seedy sorcerers and trite
magicians to heel. No more small witch fires. Only this great lit
candle, Notre Dame. Presto!”
The boys laughed with delight.
For the last step fell in place.
They had reached the top, gasping.
Notre Dame cathedral was finished and built.
Bong!
The last soft hour was struck.
The great bronze bell shuddered.
And hung empty.
The boys leaned to peer into its cavernous mouth.
There was no clapper inside shaped like Pipkin.
“Pipkin?” they whispered.
“… kin,” echoed the bell in a small echo.
“He’s here somewhere. Up there in the air, meet him’s what he promised.
And Pipkin falls back on no promises” said Moundshroud. “Look about,
boys. Fine handiwork, eh? Centuries of toil done in a fast gallop and
sneeze, right? But, ah, ah, something beside Pipkin’s missing. What?
Glance up. Scan round. Eh?”
The boys peered. They puzzled.
“Er—”
“Don’t the place look awful plain, boys? Awful untouched and unornamented?”
“Gargoyles!”
Everyone turned to look at…
Wally Babb, who was dressed as a Gargoyle for Halloween. His face fairly beamed with revelation.
“Gargoyles. The place’s got no gargoyles.”
“Gargoyles.” Moundshroud uttered and ululated and beautifully ribboned
the word with his lizardly tongue. “Gargoyles. Shall we put them on, boys?”
“How?”
“Why I should think we could whistle them in place. Whistle for
demons, boys, whistle for fiends, give a high tootling blow for
beasties and ferocious fanged loomers of the dark.”
Wally Babb sucked in a great breath. “Here’s mine!”
He whistled.
All whistled.
And the gargoyles?
They came running.
The unemployed of all midnight Europe shivered in their stone sleep and came awake.
Which is to say that all the old beasts, all the old tales, all the old
nightmares, all the old unused demons-put-by, and witches left in the
lurch, quaked at the call, reared at the whistle, trembled at the
summons, and in dust devils of propulsion skimmed down the roads,
flitted skies, buckshot through shaken trees, forded streams, swam
rivers, pierced clouds, and arrived, arrived.
Which is still to say that all the dead statues and idols and semigods
and demigods of Europe lying like a dreadful snow all about, abandoned,
in ruins, gave a blink and start and came as salamanders on the road,
or bats in skies or dingoes in the brush. They flew, they galloped,
they skittered.
To the general
excitement and amazement and much babbling shout from the fringe of
boys leaning out, Moundshroud leaning with them as the mobs of strange beasts came from north, south, east, west to panic at the gates and wait for whistles.
“Shall we drop white-hot boiling lead down on them?”
The boys saw Moundshroud’s smile.
“Heck, no,” said Tom. “Hunchback already did that years ago!”
“Well, then, no burning lava. So shall we whistle them up?”
They all whistled.
And obedient to summons, the mobs, the flocks, the prides, the crush,
the collection, the raving flux of monsters, beasts, vices rampant,
virtues gone sour, discarded saints, misguided prides, hollow pomps
oozed, slid, suckered, pelted, ran bold and right up the sides of
Notre Dame. In a floodtide of nightmare, in a tidal wave of outcry and
shamble they inundated the cathedral, to
“Up, boys, up; no pause, no rest, run!”
Bong!
Help!
They ran. They began to fall with each step, but again and again and
again steps came in place and saved them and ran them taller so the
shadow of the spires loomed tall across rivers and fields to snuff the
last witch fires at crossroads. Crones, hags, wise men, demon lovers, a
thousand miles off, snuffed like candles, whiffed to smoke, wailed and
sank to hide as the church leaned, tilted across the heavens.
“So even as the Romans cut down druid trees and chopped their God of
the Dead to fall, we now with this church, boys, cast such a shadow as
knocks all witches off their stilts, and puts seedy sorcerers and trite
magicians to heel. No more small witch fires. Only this great lit
candle, Notre Dame. Presto!”
The boys laughed with delight.
For the last step fell in place.
They had reached the top, gasping.
Notre Dame cathedral was finished and built.
Bong!
The last soft hour was struck.
The great bronze bell shuddered.
And hung empty.
The boys leaned to peer into its cavernous mouth.
There was no clapper inside shaped like Pipkin.
“Pipkin?” they whispered.
“… kin,” echoed the bell in a small echo.
“He’s here somewhere. Up there in the air, meet him’s what he promised.
And Pipkin falls back on no promises” said Moundshroud. “Look about,
boys. Fine handiwork, eh? Centuries of toil done in a fast gallop and
sneeze, right? But, ah, ah, something beside Pipkin’s missing. What?
Glance up. Scan round. Eh?”
The boys peered. They puzzled.
“Er—”
“Don’t the place look awful plain, boys? Awful untouched and unornamented?”
“Gargoyles!”
Everyone turned to look at…
Wally Babb, who was dressed as a Gargoyle for Halloween. His face fairly beamed with revelation.
“Gargoyles. The place’s got no gargoyles.”
“Gargoyles.” Moundshroud uttered and ululated and beautifully ribboned
the word with his lizardly tongue. “Gargoyles. Shall we put them on, boys?”
“How?”
“Why I should think we could whistle them in place. Whistle for
demons, boys, whistle for fiends, give a high tootling blow for
beasties and ferocious fanged loomers of the dark.”
Wally Babb sucked in a great breath. “Here’s mine!”
He whistled.
All whistled.
And the gargoyles?
They came running.
The unemployed of all midnight Europe shivered in their stone sleep and came awake.
Which is to say that all the old beasts, all the old tales, all the old
nightmares, all the old unused demons-put-by, and witches left in the
lurch, quaked at the call, reared at the whistle, trembled at the
summons, and in dust devils of propulsion skimmed down the roads,
flitted skies, buckshot through shaken trees, forded streams, swam
rivers, pierced clouds, and arrived, arrived.
Which is still to say that all the dead statues and idols and semigods
and demigods of Europe lying like a dreadful snow all about, abandoned,
in ruins, gave a blink and start and came as salamanders on the road,
or bats in skies or dingoes in the brush. They flew, they galloped,
they skittered.
To the general
excitement and amazement and much babbling shout from the fringe of
boys leaning out, Moundshroud leaning with them as the mobs of strange beasts came from north, south, east, west to panic at the gates and wait for whistles.
“Shall we drop white-hot boiling lead down on them?”
The boys saw Moundshroud’s smile.
“Heck, no,” said Tom. “Hunchback already did that years ago!”
“Well, then, no burning lava. So shall we whistle them up?”
They all whistled.
And obedient to summons, the mobs, the flocks, the prides, the crush,
the collection, the raving flux of monsters, beasts, vices rampant,
virtues gone sour, discarded saints, misguided prides, hollow pomps
oozed, slid, suckered, pelted, ran bold and right up the sides of
Notre Dame. In a floodtide of nightmare, in a tidal wave of outcry and
shamble they inundated the cathedral, to
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