Read Online (1972) The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Horror
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crust themselves on every
pinion and upthrust stone.
So here ran
pigs and there climbed Satan’s goats and yet another wall knew devils
which recarved themselves along the way, dropped horns and grew new
ones, shaved beards to sprout tendril earthworm mustaches.
Sometimes a swarm of only masks and faces scuttled up the walls and
took the buttress heights, carried by an army of crayfish and
wobbly-crotchety lobsters. Here came the heads of gorillas, full of sin
and teeth. There came men’s heads with sausages in their mouths. Beyond
danced the mask of a Fool upheld by a spider that knew ballet.
So much was going on that Tom said: “My gosh, so much is going on!”
“And more to come, there!” said Moundshroud.
For now that Notre Dame was infested with various beasts and spidering
leers and gloms and masks, why here came dragons chasing children and
whales swallowing Jonahs and chariots chockful of skulls-and-bones.
Acrobats and tumblers, yanked out of shape by demidemons, limped and
fell in strange postures to freeze on the roof.
All accompanied by pigs with harps and sows with piccolos and dogs
playing bagpipes, so the music itself helped charm and pull new mobs of
grotesques up the walls to be trapped and caught forever in sockets of
stone.
Here an ape plucked a lyre; there
floundered a woman with a fish’s tail. Now a sphinx flew out of the
night, shed its wings and became woman and lion, half and half, settled
to snooze away the centuries in the shadow and sound of high bells.
“Why, what are those?” cried Tom.
Moundshroud, leaning over, gave a snort: “Why those are Sins, boys! And nondescripts. There crawls the Worm of Conscience!”
They looked to see it crawl. It crawled very fine.
“Now,” whispered Moundshroud softly. “Settle. Slumber. Sleep.”
And the flocks of strange creatures turned about three times like evil
dogs and lay down. All beasts took root. All grimaces froze to stone.
All cries faded.
The moon shadowed and lit the gargoyles of Notre Dame.
“Does it make sense, Tom?”
“Sure. All the old gods, all the old dreams, all the old nightmares,
all the old ideas with nothing to do, out of work, we gave them work.
We called them here!”
“And here they will remain for centuries, right?”
“Right!”
They looked down over the rim.
There was a mob of beasts on the east battlement.
A crowd of sins on the west.
A surge of nightmares on the south.
And a fine scuttle of unnamed vices and ill-kept virtues to the north.
“I,” said Tom, proud of this night’s work, “wouldn’t mind living here.”
The wind crooned in the mouths of the beasts. Their fangs hissed and whistled: “Much thanks.”
“Jehosophat,” said Tom Skelton,
on the parapet. “We whistled all the stone griffins and demons here.
Now Pipkin’s lost again. I was thinking, why can’t we whistle him?”
Moundshroud laughed so his cape boomed on the night wind and his dry bones jangled inside his skin.
“Boys! Look around! He’s still here!”
“Where?”
“Here,” mourned a small faraway voice.
The boys crickled their spines looking over the parapet, cracked their necks staring up.
“Look and find, lads, hide and seek!”
And even in seeking they could not help but enjoy once more the
turbulent slates of the cathedral all fringed with horrors and
deliciously ugly with trapped beasts.
Where was Pipkin among all those dark sea creatures with gills gaped
open like mouths for an eternal gasp and sigh? Where among all those
lovely chiseled nightmares cut from the gallstones of night-lurks and
monsters cracked out of old earthquakes, vomited up from mad volcanoes which cooled themselves to frights and deliriums?
“Here,” wailed a far, small, familiar voice again.
And way down on a ledge, halfway to the earth, the boys, squinting,
thought they saw one small round beautiful angel-devil face with a
familiar eye, a familiar nose, a friendly and familiar mouth.
“Pipkin!”
Shouting, they
pinion and upthrust stone.
So here ran
pigs and there climbed Satan’s goats and yet another wall knew devils
which recarved themselves along the way, dropped horns and grew new
ones, shaved beards to sprout tendril earthworm mustaches.
Sometimes a swarm of only masks and faces scuttled up the walls and
took the buttress heights, carried by an army of crayfish and
wobbly-crotchety lobsters. Here came the heads of gorillas, full of sin
and teeth. There came men’s heads with sausages in their mouths. Beyond
danced the mask of a Fool upheld by a spider that knew ballet.
So much was going on that Tom said: “My gosh, so much is going on!”
“And more to come, there!” said Moundshroud.
For now that Notre Dame was infested with various beasts and spidering
leers and gloms and masks, why here came dragons chasing children and
whales swallowing Jonahs and chariots chockful of skulls-and-bones.
Acrobats and tumblers, yanked out of shape by demidemons, limped and
fell in strange postures to freeze on the roof.
All accompanied by pigs with harps and sows with piccolos and dogs
playing bagpipes, so the music itself helped charm and pull new mobs of
grotesques up the walls to be trapped and caught forever in sockets of
stone.
Here an ape plucked a lyre; there
floundered a woman with a fish’s tail. Now a sphinx flew out of the
night, shed its wings and became woman and lion, half and half, settled
to snooze away the centuries in the shadow and sound of high bells.
“Why, what are those?” cried Tom.
Moundshroud, leaning over, gave a snort: “Why those are Sins, boys! And nondescripts. There crawls the Worm of Conscience!”
They looked to see it crawl. It crawled very fine.
“Now,” whispered Moundshroud softly. “Settle. Slumber. Sleep.”
And the flocks of strange creatures turned about three times like evil
dogs and lay down. All beasts took root. All grimaces froze to stone.
All cries faded.
The moon shadowed and lit the gargoyles of Notre Dame.
“Does it make sense, Tom?”
“Sure. All the old gods, all the old dreams, all the old nightmares,
all the old ideas with nothing to do, out of work, we gave them work.
We called them here!”
“And here they will remain for centuries, right?”
“Right!”
They looked down over the rim.
There was a mob of beasts on the east battlement.
A crowd of sins on the west.
A surge of nightmares on the south.
And a fine scuttle of unnamed vices and ill-kept virtues to the north.
“I,” said Tom, proud of this night’s work, “wouldn’t mind living here.”
The wind crooned in the mouths of the beasts. Their fangs hissed and whistled: “Much thanks.”
“Jehosophat,” said Tom Skelton,
on the parapet. “We whistled all the stone griffins and demons here.
Now Pipkin’s lost again. I was thinking, why can’t we whistle him?”
Moundshroud laughed so his cape boomed on the night wind and his dry bones jangled inside his skin.
“Boys! Look around! He’s still here!”
“Where?”
“Here,” mourned a small faraway voice.
The boys crickled their spines looking over the parapet, cracked their necks staring up.
“Look and find, lads, hide and seek!”
And even in seeking they could not help but enjoy once more the
turbulent slates of the cathedral all fringed with horrors and
deliciously ugly with trapped beasts.
Where was Pipkin among all those dark sea creatures with gills gaped
open like mouths for an eternal gasp and sigh? Where among all those
lovely chiseled nightmares cut from the gallstones of night-lurks and
monsters cracked out of old earthquakes, vomited up from mad volcanoes which cooled themselves to frights and deliriums?
“Here,” wailed a far, small, familiar voice again.
And way down on a ledge, halfway to the earth, the boys, squinting,
thought they saw one small round beautiful angel-devil face with a
familiar eye, a familiar nose, a friendly and familiar mouth.
“Pipkin!”
Shouting, they
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