Free HIGH STRANGENESS-Tales of the Macabre by Billie Sue Mosiman

face of a dead man. Or looking into the face of a live one. It is a live-dead man and so new, so thrilling, so horrific, that it makes the mind numb. He has changed, too, and there i s more death lingering about him than there was twenty years ago. It's as if a delicate balance has been upset, weighing down toward the grave. I am growing used to him, in a small way, but still when he stares at me with those unwavering colorless eyes or when he suddenly reaches to touch my flesh, I can't help but automatically recoil as if he were a snake with fangs full of poison and just as mindless. If I can't control my own reactions, I who love him, I know others would feel compelled by revulsion to smash him to his death rather than deal with the unholy feelings he causes to stir in a man's heart.
    I hope you will also prepare yourself for I expect meeting him will scare you into speechlessness — if not worse. I rush to assure you he is not dangerous an d means no harm unless you were to raise your hand to him, or displease him in some other manner, for he is more like God than we are, and we know we cannot trifle with God.
    I must sound mad, and blasphemous, as usual, and sometimes feel that I have fallen over a precipice, truly, but I am filled with envy, loyalty, and yes, stupendous fear, of bringing back the one man who could change the entire world as we know it. I am not mad, dear Margaret, you must believe that. I am bringing home the Savior.
    Your lo ving brother,
    Robert
    * * *
     
    Walton walked alongside the tall, powerfully-built monster as they entered the village of fishermen and roughhouse sailors and men of small commerce. Even with his face covered with a length of wool wrapping, his eyes necessaril y peeked from the hood, and something about the way he carried himself, how he moved like a strong dancer who has forgotten all his steps, how he clumsily tucked his hands into his coat — all these nuances combined to give off an air of dread and loathing t h at caused passersby to move aside, to turn and stare, to whisper behind raised hands.
    Walton most feared the trip home and how to get his prize there without mishap. If he could have put the being into an iron cage and transported him the way he would a vile man-eating cat from the Dark Continent he would have done it. Of course, there was no man who could do such a demeaning thing to a god, not one who dared to try it however much he thought it might be the best way.
    “ Are you thirsty? Shall we go into a taphouse for an ale before I arrange our passage?”
    Asked not to speak, the being nodded. He took a hand from his coat and held the wool over his face tightly together.
    “ I haven't had an ale for two months. I suppose it's been a lifetime for you.” Walton chuckled a little, but the sadness of it caused him to break it off in mid-chuckle. To live without the comforts of man was high punishment and it had robbed this creature and caused him the most extreme loss and agony.
    Once inside the tav ern, Walton took off his hat and threw back his heavy cape. He had eaten nothing but rabbit and wolf and seal for weeks. His mouth watered for the bitter ale and the hot steaming stew full of thickly chopped root vegetables. He ordered two plates and two a les from the slovenly young woman who came to serve them. Then he looked around, feeling alive again instead of frozen and half starved for community. He knew he must look a sight, unwashed, bearded, his cheekbones prominent from the restricted diet. Righ t away he saw the men in the dimly lit smoky room were not looking at him, not one of them, none of them interested in the aging man with the big appetite. They were deathly silent and stared, of course, at Walton's companion wrapped mummy-style in wool, h u nkered over the odd little rough table, his large head in his impossibly huge hands.
    Fear came like lightening struck through Walton, stinging and mangling all his innards. He cleared his throat. He must do