Beyond the Curtain of Dark (v1.0), page 22
“That reminds me,” Fenwick said. “Tithonus. I’ll keep my youth, health, present appearance, all my faculties—”
“Naturally, naturally. I’m not interested in tricking you over terms. What I had in mind was the possibility that boredom might set in.”
“Are you bored?”
“I have been in my time,” the devil admitted.
“You’re immortal?”
“Of course.”
“Then why haven’t you killed yourself? Or couldn’t you?”
“I could,” the devil said bleakly. “I did…Now, the terms of our contract. Immortality, youth, health, etc., etc., invulnerability with the single exception of suicide. In return for this service, I shall possess your soul at death.”
“Why?” Fenwick asked with sudden curiosity.
The devil looked at him somberly, “In your fall, and in the fall of every soul, I forget my own for a moment.” He plucked out of empty air a parchment scroll and a quill pen.
“Our agreement,” the devil said.
Fenwick read the scroll carefully. At one point he looked up.
“What’s this?” he asked. “I didn’t know I was supposed to put up surety.”
“I will naturally want some kind of bond,” the devil said. “Unless you can find a co-guarantor?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t,” Fenwick said. “Not even in 232 the death house. Well, what kind of security do you want?”
“Certain of your memories of the past,” the devil said. “All of them unconscious, as it happens.”
Fenwick considered. “I’m thinking about amnesia. I need my memories.”
“Not these. Amnesia is concerned with conscious memories. You will never know the structure I want is missing.”
“Is it—the soul?”
“No,” the devil said calmly. “It is a necessary part of the soul, of course, or it would be of no value to me. But you will keep the essentials until you choose to surrender them to me at your death. I will then combine the two and take possession of your soul. But that will no doubt be a long time from now, and in the meantime you will suffer no inconvenience.”
“If I write that into the contract, will you sign?”
The devil nodded.
Fenwick scribbled in the margin and then signed his name with the wet red point of the quill. “Here,” he said.
The devil, with a tolerant air, added his name. He then waved the scroll into emptiness.
“Very well,” he said. “Now stand up, please. Some glandular readjustment is necessary.” His hands sank into Fenwick’s breast painlessly, and moved swiftly here and there. “The thyroid…and the other endocrines …can be reset to regenerate your body indefinitely. Turn round, please.”
In the mirror over the fireplace Fenwick saw his red visitor’s hand sink softly into the back of Fenwick’s head. He felt a sudden dizziness.
’Thalamus and pineal,” the devil murmured. “The space-time cognition is subjective…and now you’re independent of your external environment. One moment, now. There’s another slight…”
His wrist twisted suddenly and he drew his closed hand out of Fenwick’s head. At the same time Fenwick felt a strange, sudden elation.
“What did you do then?” he asked, turning.
No one stood behind him. The apartment was quite empty. The devil had disappeared.
It could, of course, have been a dream. Fenwick had anticipated this possible skepticism after the event. Hallucinations could occur. He thought he was immortal and invulnerable now. But this is, by common standards, a psychotic delusion. He had no proof.
But he had no doubt, either. Immortality, he thought, is something tangible. An inward feeling of infinite well-being. That glandular readjustment, he thought. My body is functioning now as it never did before, as no one’s ever did. I am a self-regenerating, closed system which nothing can injure, not even time.
A curious, welling happiness possessed him. He closed his eyes and summoned up the oldest memories he could command. Sunlight on a porch floor, the buzzing of a fly, warmth and a rocking motion. He was aware of no lack. His mind ranged free in the past. The rhythmic sway and creak of swings in a playground, the echoing stillness of a church. A piano-box clubhouse. The roughness of a washcloth scrubbing his face, and his mother’s voice…
Invulnerable, immortal, Fenwick crossed the room, opened a door and went down a short hallway. He walked with a sense of wonderful lightness, of pure pleasure in being alive. He opened a second door quietly and looked in. His mother lay in bed asleep, propped on a heap of pillows.
Fenwick felt very happy.
He moved softly forward, skirting the wheel chair by the bed, and stood looking down. Then he tugged a pillow gently free and lifted it in both hands, to lower it again slowly, at first, towards his mother’s face.
Since this is not the chronicle of James Fenwick’s sins, it is clearly not necessary to detail the steps by which he arrived, within five years, at the title of the Worst Man in the World. Sensational newspapers reveled in him. There were, of course, worse men, but being mortal and vulnerable they were more reticent.
Fenwick’s behavior was based on an increasing feeling that he was the only permanent object in a transient world. “Their days are as grass,” he mused, watching his fellow Satanists as they crowded around an altar with something unpleasant on it. This was early in his career, when he was exploring pure sensation along traditional lines, later discarded as juvenilia.
Meanwhile, perfectly free, and filled with that enduring, delightful sense of well-being. Fenwick experimented with many aspects of living. He left a trail of hung juries and baffled attorneys behind him. “A modem Caligula!” said the New York News, explaining to its readers who Caligula had been, with examples. “Are the shocking charges against James Fenwick true?”
But somehow, he could never quite be convicted. Every charge fell through. He was, as the devil had assured him, a closed system within his environment, and his independence of the outer world was demonstrated in many a courtroom. Exactly how the devil managed things so efficiently Fenwick could never understand. Very seldom did an actual miracle have to happen.
Once an investment banker, correctly blaming Fenwick for the collapse of his entire fortune, fired five bullets at Fenwick’s heart. The bullets ricocheted. The only witnesses were the banker and Fenwick. Theorizing that his unharmed target was wearing a bulletproof vest, the banker aimed the last bullet at Fenwick’s head, with identical results. Later the man tried again, with a knife. Fenwick, who was curious, decided to wait and see what would happen. What happened was that eventually the banker went mad.
Fenwick, who had appropriated his fortune by very direct means, proceeded to increase it. Somehow, he was never convicted of any of the capital charges he incurred. It took a certain technique to make sure that the crimes he committed would always endanger his life if he were arrested for them, but he mastered the method without much difficulty and his wealth and power increased tremendously.
He was certainly notorious. Presently he decided that something was lacking, and began to crave admiration. It was not so easy to achieve. He did not yet possess enough wealth to transcend the mortal judgment of society. That was easily remedied. Ten years after his bargain with the devil, Fenwick was not perhaps the most powerful man in the world, but certainly the most powerful man in the United States. He attained the admiration and the fame he thought he wanted.
And it was not enough. The devil had suggested that in a few million years Fenwick might wish to die, out of sheer boredom. It took only ten years for Fenwick to realize, one summer day, with a little shock of unpleasant surprise, that he did not know what he wanted to do next.
He examined his state of mind with close attention. “Is this boredom?” he asked himself. If so, not even boredom was unpleasant. There was a delightful, sensuous relaxation about it, like floating in a warm summer ocean. In a sense, he was too relaxed.
“If this is all there is to immortality,” he told himself. “I might as well not have bothered. Pleasant, certainly, but not worth bartering my soul for. There must be things that will rouse me out of this somnolence.”
He experimented. The next five years witnessed his meteoric fall from public favor as he tried more and more frantically to break through that placid calm. He couldn’t do it. -He got no reaction from even the most horrific situations. What others saw with shock and often with horror had no meaning to Fenwick.
With a sense of smothered desperation under the calm he saw that he was beginning to lose contact with the race of man. Humans were mortal, and more and more they seemed to recede into the distance, less real than the solid earth underfoot. In time, he thought, the earth would become less solid, as he watched the slow shifting of the geologic tides.
He turned at last to the realm of the intellect. He took up painting and he dabbled in literature and in some of the sciences. Interesting—up to a point. But always he came before long to a closed door in the mind, beyond which lay only that floating calm which dissolved all interest out of his mind. Something was lacking in him…
The suspicion was slow in forming. It floated almost to the surface and then sank again under the pressure of new experiments. But eventually it broke free into the realm of the conscious.
Early one summer morning Fenwick roused out of a sound sleep and sat straight up in bed as if an invisible hand had pulled him out of slumber.
“Something is missing!” he told himself with great conviction. “But what?” He meditated. “How long has it been gone?” He could not say—at first. The deep, ineradicable calm kept lulling him and it was hard to follow the thought. That calm in itself was part of the trouble. How long had he had it? Obviously, since the day of his pact. What caused it? Well, he had been assuming all these many years that it was simply the physical well-being of perfectly and eternally functioning bodily mechanisms. But what if this were really something more? What if it were an artificially induced dulling of the mind so that he would not suspect a theft had been committed?
A theft? Sitting up in bed among heavy silk sheets, with the June dawn pale outside the windows, James Fenwick suddenly saw the outrageous truth. He struck his knee a resounding blow under the bedclothes.
“My soul!” he cried to the unheeding dawn. “He swindled me! He stole my soul!”
The moment the idea took shape it seemed so obvious Fenwick could not understand why it had not been clear from the first. The devil had cunningly and most unfairly anticipated the pay-off by seizing his soul top soon. And if not all of it, then the most important part. Fenwick had actually stood before the mirror and watched him do it. The proof seemed obvious. For something was very definitely missing. He seemed to stand always just inside a closed door in the mind that would not open for him because he lacked the essential something, the lost, the stolen soul…
What good was immortality, without this mysterious something that gave immortality its savor? He was helpless to enjoy the full potentialities of eternal life because he had been robbed of the very key to living.
“‘Certain memories of the past,’ is it?” he sneered, remembering the devil’s casual description of the thing he wanted for surety. “Never miss them, eh? And all the time it was something out of the very middle of my soul!”
Now he remembered episodes out of folklore and mythology, people in legend who had lacked souls. The Little Mermaid, the Seal Maiden, someone or other in A Midsummer Nights Dream—a standard situation in myth, once you considered the question. And those who lacked the souls always yearned to get one at any cost. Nor was it, Fenwick realized, simply ethnocentric thinking on the part of the author. He was in the unique position of knowing this yearning for a soul to be quite valid.
Now that he was aware of his loss, the queer, crippling inward lack tormented him. It had presumably tormented the Little Mermaid and others. Like him, they had-had immortality. Being extrahuman they had probably possessed this curious, light-headed, lighthearted freedom which even now interposed a cushion of partial indifference between Fenwick and his loss. Were not the gods supposed to spend their days in just this simple-minded joy, laughing and singing, dancing and drinking endlessly, never weary, never bored?
Up to a point it was wonderful. But once you began to suspect that something had been removed, you lost your taste for the Olympian life and began at all costs to crave a soul. Why? Fenwick couldn’t say. He only knew… …
At this moment the cool summer dawn shimmered between him and the window, and the devil stood before James Fenwick.
Fenwick shuddered slightly.
“The bargain,” he said, “was for eternity.”
“Yes,” the devil said. “Only you can abrogate it.”
“Well, I don’t intend to,” Fenwick told him sharply. “How did you happen to show up at just this moment?”
“I thought I heard my name called,” the devil said. “Did you want to speak to me? 1 seemed to catch a note of despair in your mind. How do you feel? Bored yet? Ready to end it?”
“Certainly not,” Fenwick said. “But if I were it’s because you swindled me. I want a word with you. What was it you took out of my head in your closed hand the day of our pact?”
“I don’t care to discuss it,” the devil said, lashing his tail slightly.
“Well, I care,” Fenwick cried. “You told me it was only a few unimportant memories I’d never miss.”
“And so it was,” the devil said, grinning.
“It was my soul!” Fenwick said, striking the bedclothes angrily. “You cheated me. You collected my soul in advance, and now I can’t enjoy the immortality I bought with it. This is out-and-out breach of contract.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” the devil asked.
“There must be a great many things I’d enjoy doing, if I had my soul back,” Fenwick said. “I could take up music and become a great musician, if I had my soul. I always liked music, and I have eternity to learn in. Or I could study mathematics. I could learn nuclear physics and who knows, with all the time and money and knowledge in the world at my command, there’s no limit to the things I could achieve. I could even blow up the world and rob you of all future souls. How would you like that?”
The devil laughed politely and polished his talons on his sleeve.
“Don’t laugh,” Fenwick said. “It’s perfectly true. I could study medicine and prolong human life. I could study politics and economics and put an end to wars and suffering. I could study crime and fill up Hell with new converts. I could do anything—if I had my soul back. But without it—well, everything is too—too peaceful.” Fenwick’s shoulders sagged disconsolately. “I feel cut off from humanity,” he said. “Everything I do is blocked. But I’m calm and carefree. I’m not even unhappy. And yet I don’t know what to do next. I—”
“In a word, you’re bored,” the devil said. “Excuse me if I don’t show enough sympathy for your plight.”
“In a word, you swindled me,” Fenwick said. “I want back my soul.”
“I told you exactly what it was I took,” the devil said.
“My soul!”
“Not at all,” the devil assured him. "I'm afraid I shall have to leave you now.”
“Give me back my soul, you swindler!”
“Try and make me do it,” the devil said with a broad grin. The first ray of the morning sun shimmered in the cool air of the bedroom, and in the shimmer the devil dissolved and vanished.
“Very well,” Fenwick said to the emptiness. “Very well, I will.”
He wasted no time about it. Or at least, no more time than his curious, carefree placidity enforced.
“How can I bring pressure on the devil?” he asked 240 himself. “By blocking him in some way? I don’t see how. Well, then, by depriving him of something he values? What does he value? Souls. All souls. My soul. Hm-m-m.” He frowned pensively. “I could,” he reflected, “repent…”
Fenwick thought all day about it. The idea tempted him, and yet of course in a way it was self-defeating. The consequences were unpredictable. Besides, he was not sure how to go about it. To undertake a lifetime of good deeds seemed too boring;
In the evening he went out alone and walked at twilight through the streets, thinking deeply. The people he passed were like transient shadows reflected on the screen of time. They had no significance. The air was sweet and calm, and if it had not been for this sense of nagging injustice, the aimless inability to use the immortality he had paid so high for, he would have felt entirely at peace.
Presently the sound of music penetrated his rapt senses and he looked up to find himself outside the portal of a great cathedral. Shadowy people went up and down the steps. From within deep organ music rolled, the sound of singing emerged, occasional waves of incense were sweet on the air. It was most impressive.
Fenwick thought, “I could go up and embrace the altar and shout out my repentance.” He put his foot on the bottom step, but then he hesitated and felt that he could not face it. The cathedral was too impressive. He would feel like such a fool. And yet—
He walked on, undecided. He walked a long way.
Again the sound of music interrupted his thinking, this time he was passing a vacant lot upon which a large revival tent had been pitched. There was a great deal of noise coming out of it. Music pounded wildly through the canvas walls. Men and women were singing and shouting inside.
Fenwick paused, struck by hope. Here at least he could do his repenting without more than a passing glance. He hesitated briefly and then went in.
It was very noisy, crowded and confused inside. But before Fenwick, an aisle stretched between benches toward an altar, of sorts, with several highly excited people clustered under the uplifted arms of an even more highly excited speaker in an improvised pulpit.
Fenwick started down the aisle.
“How should I phrase this?” he wondered, walking slowly. “Just ‘I repent’? Is that enough? Or something like, ‘I have sold my soul to the devil and I hereby repudiate the bargain’? Are legal terms necessary?”
