Free The Satyr's Head: Tales of Terror by Brian Lumley, Ramsey Campbell, David A. Riley Page A

water.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Our cool, clear, spring water makes mighty good drinkin’.’
    ‘All I want is direction. Does this godawful apology for a road take me to Stotetown?’
    ‘Sure. Sure. The only place it will take you to. Thought youda known that, drivin’ this way.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Ten miles or more on, and it’s a mighty dusty track. Sure you wouldn’t care for that drink o’ water. Comes bubblin’ up freshn’ cold. O’course I ain’t pushin’ it on you, neighbour; but I guess it’s kinda neighbourly to offer— specially to a body as parched-up as you look. It’s free to us—it’s free to you, neighbour. The Lord provides.’
    The thought of water sparked Driver’s imagination. Cold water frosting a glass. Water trickling down a parched throat. Water that might even sluice away regrets, bad dreams, and soured ambitions even as it washed away the sweat and dust. For a second he thought he glimpsed something for which he had been searching. It couldn’t really be as simple as a drink on a scorching day, and yet…
    ‘Thanks,’ he said, and slid from the car.
    Kez jerked his head. ‘Back o’ the shack. Foller me,’
    But even as Driver stumbled after the lumbering red-head over the broken ground, the euphoria faded. The cynic at the back of his mind with whose help he had outsmarted his associates and beaten back his competitors, began to whisper. Nobody ever does anything for nothing. Nothing is for free. In the long run a gift costs more than the goods you pay for. What did the friendly scarecrow hope to get in return for his drink of water? If Driver ever offered a drink of water there would be strings attached. Why should there be one law for the city, and another for the backwoods?
    Driver tripped against the hoe left lying on the baked ground, and stifled the mild blasphemy that he automatically voiced.
    Kez turned to see Driver frowning at the rusty head and rough, near-black handle, Kes was disappointed that Driver had halted. So far everything had worked so smoothly. No fish had ever risen so daintily to the bait. Only a few yards more to the invitingly open door, and everything would be over bar the gutting and jointing.
    ‘C’mon, mister,’ urged Kez. ‘Y’want that water?’
    ‘Dropped your hoe,’ observed Driver, prodding it with his shoe toe.
    ‘Pick it up on the way back,’ replied Kez. ‘C’mon.’
    But Driver did not move. Intuition is a matter of subconsciously interpreting signs and portents. In Korea the sergeant had picked off the sniper before the sniper had dropped him. In business he had forecast market trends before they hit the Dow Jones Index. There was something wrong about that hoe.
    ‘Thought you was in a hurry to get to Stotetown,’ grumbled Kez,
    ‘You in a hurry?’ asked Driver.
    ‘Got all day,’ replied Kez. ‘Thought you was thirsty. Don’t act like you was thirsty.’ The sun glinted on Driver’s glasses, obscuring his piggy eyes. It bothered Kez that he couldn’t see those eyes.
    The hoe worried Driver. It had a significance that eluded him. Like—well, like a wife grown smugly contented after months of wild-cat spitting and scratching; and he hadn’t suspected that another man was servicing her. Like those mislaid files of accounts that suddenly turned up in the enemy’s office. It seemed as though the fat that encased his body was also smothering his mind. Think. Think! Why should a man be hoeing when any reasonable creature would be taking refuge from the sun? Why hoe a barren patch at this time of year? It wasn’t as if the red-head liked work, otherwise the shack wouldn’t be falling apart. Feeling the pricking down his spine, the sergeant would have reached for his gun: but there was no longer a gun handy—this was a different time, a different world, perhaps a different man. He glanced to where his car was parked, eighty or so yards away.
    ‘You ain’t agoin’ back?’ said Kez anxiously. ‘Not without that water.’