



Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
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                         Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from Amazing Stories March 1954. Extensive
    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this
    publication was renewed. RING ONCE FOR DEATH


                           BY ROBERT ARTHUR


                       Illustrator: Ernie Barth


     _The power of the old gods was certainly nothing for Mark
      and Edith--a modern, twentieth-century couple--to worry
      about. After all--everybody dies!_

       *       *       *       *       *




[Illustration:]

Twenty years had left no trace inside Sam Kee's little shop on Mott
Street. There were the same dusty jars of ginseng root and tigers'
whiskers, the same little bronze Buddahs, the same gim-cracks mixed
with fine jade. Edith Williams gave a little murmur of pleasure as the
door shut behind them. "Mark," she said, "it hasn't changed! It doesn't look as if a thing
had been sold since we were here on our honeymoon." "It certainly doesn't," Dr. Mark Williams agreed, moving down the
narrow aisle behind her. "If someone hadn't told us Sam Kee was dead,
I'd believe we'd stepped back twenty years in time, like they do in
those scientific stories young David reads." "We must buy something," his wife said. "For a twentieth anniversary
present for me. Perhaps a bell?" From the shadowy depths of the shop a young man emerged, American in
dress and manner despite the Oriental contours of his face and eyes. "Good evening," he said. "May I show you something?" "We think we want a bell," Dr. Williams chuckled. "But we aren't quite
sure. You're Sam Kee's son?" "Sam Kee, junior. My honored father passed to the halls of his
ancestors five years ago. I could just say that he died--" black eyes
twinkled--"but customers like the more flowery mode of speech. They
think it's quaint." "I think it's just nice, and not quaint at all," Edith Williams
declared. "We're sorry your father is dead. We'd hoped to see him
again. Twenty years ago when we were a very broke young couple on a
honeymoon he sold us a wonderful rose-crystal necklace for half
price." "I'm sure he still made a profit." The black eyes twinkled again. "But
if you'd like a bell, here are small temple bells, camel bells, dinner
bells...."

But even as he spoke, Edith Williams' hand darted to something at the
back of the shelf. "A bell carved out of crystal!" she exclaimed. "And rose-crystal at
that. What could be more perfect? A rose-crystal wedding present and a
rose-crystal anniversary present!" The young man half stretched out his hand. "I don't think you want that," he said. "It's broken." "Broken?" Edith Williams rubbed off the dust and held the lovely
bell-shape of crystal, the size of a pear, to the light. "It looks
perfect to me." "I mean it is not complete." Something of the American had vanished
from the young man. "It has no clapper. It will not ring." "Why, that's right." Mark Williams took the bell. "The clapper's
missing." "We can have another clapper made," his wife declared. "That is, if
the original can't be found?" The young Chinese shook his head. "The bell and the clapper were deliberately separated by my father
twenty years ago." He hesitated, then added: "My father was afraid of
this bell." "Afraid of it?" Mark Williams raised his eyebrows. The other hesitated again. "It will probably sound like a story for tourists," he said. "But my
father believed it. This bell was supposedly stolen from the temple of
a sect of Buddhists somewhere in the mountains of China's interior. Just as many Occidentals believe that the Christian Judgement Day will
be heralded by a blast on St. Peter's trumpet, so this small sect is
said to believe that when a bell like this one is rung, a bell carved
from a single piece of rose crystal, and consecrated by ceremonies
lasting ten years, any dead within sound of it will rise and live
again." "Heavenly!" Edith Williams cried. "And no pun intended. Mark, think
what a help this bell will be in your practise when we make it ring
again!" To the Chinese she added, smiling: "I'm just teasing him. My
husband is really a very fine surgeon." The other bowed his head. "I must tell you," he said, "you will not be able to make it ring. Only the original clapper, carved from the same block of rose crystal,
will ring it. That is why my father separated them." Again he hesitated. "I have told you only half of what my father told me. He said that,
though it defeats death, Death can not be defeated. Robbed of his
chosen victim, he takes another in his place. Thus when the bell was
used in the temple of its origin--let us say when a high priest or a
chief had died--a slave or servant was placed handy for Death to take
when he had been forced to relinquish his grasp upon the important
one." He smiled, shook his head. "There," he said. "A preposterous story. Now if you wish it, the bell
is ten dollars. Plus, of course, sales tax." "The story alone is worth more," Dr. Williams declared. "I think we'd
better have it sent, hadn't we, Edith? It'll be safer in the mail than
in our suitcase." "Sent?" His wife seemed to come out of some deep feminine meditation. "Oh, of course. And as for its not ringing--I shall make it ring. I
know I shall." "If the story is true," Mark Williams murmured, "I hope not...."

       *       *       *       *       *

The package came on a Saturday morning, when Mark Williams was
catching up on the latest medical publications in his untidy,
book-lined study. He heard Edith unwrapping paper in the hall outside. Then she came in with the rose-crystal bell in her hands. "Mark, it's here!" she said. "Now to make it ring." She plumped herself down beside his desk. He took the bell and reached
for a silver pencil. "Just for the sake of curiosity," he remarked, "and not because I
believe that delightful sales talk we were given, let's see if it will
ring when I tap. It should, you know." He tapped the lip of the bell. A muted _thunk_ was the only response. Then he tried with a coin, a paper knife, and the bottom of a glass. In each instance the resulting sound was nothing like a bell ringing. "If you've finished, Mark," Edith said then, with feminine tolerance,
"let me show you how it's done." "Gladly," her husband agreed. She took the bell and turned away for a
moment. Then she shook the bell vigorously. A clear, sweet ringing
shivered through the room--so thin and etherial that small involuntary
shivers crawled up his spine. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "How did you do that?" "I just put the clapper back in place with some thread," Edith told
him. "The clapper?" He struck his forehead with his palm. "Don't tell
me--the crystal necklace we bought twenty years ago!" "Of course." Her tone was composed.