RAYMOND E. FEIST
Faerie Tale

One of life’s truly rarest treasures is friendship. I count myself exceedingly fortunate in this regard. My friends have given of themselves above and beyond the call, in far too many ways to recount, but, most important, in love, support, and acceptance. I shall never be their equal in generosity.

But as a humble token of appreciation, this book is dedicated to:

The Original Thursday Nighters:

Steve A., Jon, Anita, Alan, Tim, Rich, Ethan,

Jeff, Lorri, Steve B., and Bob

(and April, for I can’t seem to remember a time when she wasn’t there)

back when April and Steve’s house was Steve and Jon’s apartment and we all sweated finals, experimental results, orals, dissertation defences, finding jobs, the triumphs and the failures, the pain, the love, and the growing … together.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: May

Erl King Hill

June

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

July

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

August

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

September

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

October

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

The Fool

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Epilogue: December

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By The Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

• Prologue • May

Barney Doyle sat at his cluttered workbench, attempting to fix Olaf Andersen’s ancient power mower for the fourth time in seven years. He had the cylinder head off and was judging the propriety of pronouncing last rites on the machine – he expected the good fathers over at St Catherine’s wouldn’t approve. The head was cracked – which was why Olaf couldn’t get it started – and the cylinder walls were almost paper-thin from wear and a previous rebore. The best thing Andersen could do would be to invest in one of those Toro grass cutters, with all the fancy bells and whistles, and put this old machine out to rust. Barney knew Olaf would raise Cain about having to buy a new one, but that was Olaf’s lookout. Barney also knew getting a dime out of Andersen for making such a judgement would be close to a miracle. It would be to the benefit of all parties concerned if Barney could coax one last summer’s labour from the nearly terminal machine. Barney absently took a sharpener to the blades while he pondered. He could take one more crack at it. An oversized cylinder ring might do the trick – and he could weld the small crack; he could get back most of the compression. But if he didn’t pull it off, he’d lose both the time and the money spent on parts. No, he decided at last, better tell Andersen to make plans for a funeral.

A hot, damp gust of wind rattled the half-open window. Barney absently pulled the sticky shirt away from his chest. Meggie McCorly, he thought suddenly, a smile coming to his lined face. She had been a vision of beauty in simple cotton, the taut fabric stretched across ripe, swaying hips and ample breasts as she walked home from school each day. For a moment he was struck by a rush of memories so vivid he felt an echo of lust rising in his old loins. Barney took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. He savoured the spring scents, the hot muggy night smells, so much like those that blew through the orchards and across the fields of County Wexford. Barney thought of the night he and Meggie had fled from the dance, from the crowded, stuffy hall, slipping away unnoticed as the town celebrated Paddy O’Shea and Mary McMannah’s wedding. The sultry memories caused Barney to dab again at his forehead as a stirring visited his groin. Chuckling to himself, Barney thought there’s some life yet in this old boyo.

Barney stayed lost in memories of half-forgotten passions for long minutes, then discovered he was still running the sharpener over a blade on Andersen’s mower and had brought the edge to a silvery gleam. He set the sharpener down, wondering what had come over him. He hadn’t thought of Meggie McCorly since he’d immigrated to America, back in ’38. Last he’d heard, she’d married one of the Cammack lads over in Enniscorthy. He couldn’t remember which one, and that made him feel sad.

Barney caught a flicker of movement through the small window of his work shed. He put down the sharpener and went to peer out into the evening’s fading light. Not making out what it was that had caught his attention, Barney moved back towards his workbench. Just as his field of vision left the window, he again glimpsed something from the corner of his eye. Barney opened the door to his work shed and took a single step outside. Then he stopped.

Old images, half-remembered tales, and songs from his boyhood rushed forward to overwhelm him as he slowly stepped backward into his shed. Feelings of joy and terror so beautiful they brought tears to his eyes flowed through Barney, breaking past every rational barrier. The implements of society left for his ministrations, broken toasters, the mower, the blender with the burned-out motor, his little television for the baseball games, all were vanquished in an instant as a heritage so ancient it predated man’s society appeared just outside Barney’s shed. Not taking his eyes from what he beheld beyond the door, he retreated slowly, half stumbling, until his back was against the workbench. Reaching up and back, Barney pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Twenty-two years before, when he had taken the pledge, Barney had placed the bottle of Jameson’s whisky atop the shelf as a reminder and a challenge. In twenty-two years he had come to ignore the presence of the bottle, had come to shut out its siren call, until it had become simply another feature of the little shed where he worked.

Slowly he pulled the cork, breaking the brittle paper of the old federal tax stamp. Without moving his head, without taking his gaze from the door, Barney lifted the bottle to the side of his mouth and began to drink.

Erl King Hill

June

• Chapter One •

‘Stop it, you two!’

Gloria Hastings stood with hands on hips, delivering the Look. Sean and Patrick stopped their bickering over who was entitled to the baseball bat. Their large blue eyes regarded their mother for a moment before, as one, they judged it close to the point of no return where her patience was concerned. They reached an accord with their peculiar, silent communication. Sean conceded custody of the bat to Patrick and led the escape outside.

‘Don’t wander too far off!’ Gloria shouted after them. She listened to the sounds of eight-year-olds dashing down the ancient front steps and for a moment considered the almost preternatural bond between her boys. The old stories of twins and their empathy in likes and looks had seemed folktales to her before giving birth, but now she conceded that there was something there out of the ordinary, a closeness beyond what was expected of siblings.

Putting aside her musing, she looked at the mess the movers had left and considered, not for the first time, the wisdom of all this. She wandered aimlessly among the opened crates of personal belongings and felt nearly overwhelmed by the simple demands of sorting out the hundreds of small things they had brought with them from California. Just deciding where each item should go seemed a Sisyphean task.

She glanced around the room, as if expecting it to have somehow changed since her last inspection. Deep-grained hardwood floors, freshly polished – which would need polishing again as soon as the crates and boxes were hauled outside – hinted at a style of living alien to Gloria. She regarded the huge fireplace with its ancient hand-carved façade as something from another planet, a stark contrast to the rough brick and stone ranch-house-style hearths of her California childhood. The stairs in the hallway, with their polished maple banisters, and the sliding doors to the den and dining room were relics of another era, conjuring up images of William Powell as Clarence Day or Clifton Webb in Cheaper by the Dozen. This house called for – no, demanded, she amended – high starched collars in an age of designer jeans. Gloria absently brushed back an errant strand of blonde hair attempting an escape from under the red kerchief tied about her head, and fought back a nearly overwhelming homesickness. Casting about for a place to start in the seemingly endless mess, she threw her hands up in resignation. ‘This is not what Oscar winners are supposed to be doing! Phil!’

When no answer was forthcoming, she left the large living room and shouted her husband’s name up the stairs. Again no reply. She walked back along the narrow hallway to the kitchen and pushed open the swing door. The old house presented its kitchen to the east, with hinged windows over the sink and drainboard admitting the morning light. It would be hot in the mornings, come July, but it would be a pleasant place to sit in the evenings, with the windows and large door to the screened-in back porch left open, letting in the evening breeze. At least, she hoped so. Southern California days might be blast-furnace-hot at times, but it was dry heat and the evenings were impossibly beautiful. God, she wished to herself, what I’d give for an honest patio, and about half this humidity. Fighting off a sudden bout of regret over the move, she pulled her sticky blouse away from herself and let some air cool her while she hollered for her husband again.

An answering scrabbling sound under the table made her jump, and she turned and uttered her favourite oath, ‘Goddamnitall!’ Under the kitchen table crouched Bad Luck, the family’s black Labrador retriever, a guilty expression on his visage as he hunkered down before a ten-pound bag of Ken-L-Ration he had plundered. Crunchy kernels rolled around the floor. ‘You!’ she commanded. ‘Out!’

Bad Luck knew the rules of the game as well as the boys and at once bolted from under the table. He skidded about the floor looking for a way out, suddenly confounded by discovering himself in new territory. Having arrived only the day before, he hadn’t yet learned the local escape routes. He turned first one way, then another, his tail half wagging, half lowered between his legs, until Gloria held open the swing door to the hallway. Bad Luck bolted down the hall towards the front door. She followed and opened it for him and, as he dashed outside, she shouted, ‘Go find the boys!’

Turning, she spied the family’s large, smoky tomcat preening himself on the stairs. Philip had named the cat Hemingway, but everyone else called him Ernie. Feeling set upon, Gloria reached over, picked him up, and deposited him outside. ‘You too!’ she snapped, slamming the door behind him.

Ernie was a scarred veteran of such family eruptions and took it all with an unassailable dignity attained only by British ambassadors, Episcopal bishops, and tomcats. He glanced about the porch, decided upon a sunny patch, turned about twice, and settled down for a nap.

Gloria returned to the kitchen, calling for her husband. Ignoring Bad Luck’s mess for the moment, she left the kitchen and walked past the service porch. She cast a suspicious sidelong glance at the ancient washer and dryer. She had already decided a visit to the mall was in order, for she knew with dread certainty those machines were just waiting to devour any clothing she might be foolish enough to place inside. New machines would take only a few days to deliver, she hoped. She paused a moment as she regarded the faded, torn sofa that occupied the large back porch, and silently added some appropriate porch furniture to her Sears’s list.

Opening the screen door, she left the porch and walked down the steps to the ‘backyard’, a large bare patch of earth defined by the house, a stand of old apple trees off to the left, the dilapidated garage to the right, and the equally run-down barn a good fifty yards away. Over near the barn she caught sight of her husband, speaking to his daughter. He still looked like an Ivy League professor, she thought, with his greying hair receding upwards slowly, his brown eyes intense. But he had a smile to melt your heart, one that made him look like a little boy. Then Gloria noticed that her stepdaughter, Gabrielle, was in the midst of a rare but intense pout, and debated turning around and leaving them alone. She knew that Phil had just informed Gabbie she couldn’t have her horse for the summer.

Gabbie stood with arms crossed tight against her chest, weight shifted to her left leg, a pose typical of teenage girls that Gloria and other actresses over twenty-five had to dislocate joints to imitate. For a moment Gloria was caught in open admiration of her stepdaughter. When Gloria and Phil had married, his career was in high gear, and Gabbie had been with her maternal grandmother, attending a private school in Arizona, seeing her father and his new wife only at Christmas, at Easter, and for two weeks in the summer. Since her grandmother had died, Gabbie had come to live with them. Gloria liked Gabbie, but they had never been able to communicate easily, and these days Gloria saw a beautiful young woman taking the place of a moody young girl. Gloria felt an unexpected stab of guilt and worry that she and Gabbie might never get closer. She put aside her momentary uneasiness and approached them.

Phil said, ‘Look, honey, it will only take a week or two more, then the barn will be fixed and we can see about leasing some horses. Then you and the boys can go riding whenever you want.’

Gabbie tossed her long dark hair, and her brown eyes narrowed. Gloria was struck by Gabbie’s resemblance to her mother, Corinne. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t ship Bumper out from home, Father.’ She said ‘Father’ in that polysyllabic way young girls have of communicating hopelessness over ever being understood. ‘You let the boys bring that retarded dog and you brought Ernie. Look, if it’s the money, I’ll pay for it. Why do we have to rent some stupid farmer’s horses when Bumper’s back in California with no one to ride him?’

Gloria decided to take a hand and entered the conversation as she closed on them. ‘You know it’s not money. Ned Barlow called and said he had a jumper panic aboard a flight last week, and they had to put him down before he could endanger the crew and riders, and he almost lost a second horse as well. The insurance company’s shut him down until he resolves that mess. And it’s a week into June and Ned also said it would be four or five weeks before he could get a reliable driver and good trailer to bring Bumper here, then nearly a week to move him, with all the stops he’d have to make. By the time he got here, it would be almost time for you to head back to UCLA. You’d have to ship him right back so he’d be there to ride when you’re at school. Want me to go on? Look, Gabbie, Ned’ll see Bump’s worked and cared for. He’ll be fine and ready for you when you get back.’

‘Oooh,’ answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggravation, ‘I don’t know why you had to drag me out here to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky Summers. Her parents said it was all right.’

‘Stop whining,’ Phil snapped, his expression showing at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an effort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while Corinne had with regularity. ‘Look, honey, I’m sorry. But I don’t like Ducky and her fancy friends. They’re kids with too much money and time on their hands, and not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And Ducky’s mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe.’ He cast a knowing glance at his wife. ‘I doubt they have a hint who’s sleeping at their house these days.’

‘Look, I know Ducky’s an airhead and has a new boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of myself.’

‘I know you can, hon,’ answered Phil, ‘but until you’ve graduated, you’ll have to put up with a father’s prerogatives.’ He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘All too soon some young guy’s going to steal you away, Gabbie. We’ve never had a lot of time together. I thought we could make it a family summer.’

Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a slight hug, but it was clear she wasn’t pleased. Gloria decided to change the subject. ‘I could use a hand, you guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes aren’t going to unload themselves.’

Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out a beleaguered sound and plodded towards the house. When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, ‘I’m probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust.’

‘Or to arrange for her first abortion?’ queried Gloria.

‘That too, I suppose. I mean, she’s old enough.’

Gloria shrugged. ‘For several years, sport. I hadn’t when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God put in me by the nuns at St Genevieve’s.’

‘Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect it’s too late for a father-daughter talk.’

‘From the way she fills her jeans, I’d say it was about six or seven years too late. Besides, it’s none of our business, unless she asks for advice.’

Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound. ‘Yes, I’d guess so.’

‘Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was tough. But you’ve done a good job the last two years.’

‘It’s no easier for you,’ he countered.

She grinned up at him. ‘Bets. I’m not her mother, and I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gabbie’s not going to be the only one around here throwing temper tantrums if I don’t get some help with those boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit, and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss Equestrian of Encino.’

Phil’s face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes showed a flicker of concern as he said, ‘Having second thoughts about the move?’

Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she said, ‘No, not really. Just about unpacking.’ She changed the subject. ‘I had a call from Tommy about an hour ago.’

‘And what does Superagent allow? Another movie offer?’ he asked jokingly.

‘No.’ She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch, and she counted him among her few close friends in the business. ‘He called to say Janet White is opening a play on Broadway in the fall. They’re reviving Long Day’s Journey.’

‘Getting the itch again?’

She smiled. ‘Not since the last play I was in bombed in Hartford.’ Phil laughed. She had never caught on in New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met. Phil had taken to calling her ‘the Oscar winner’, and it had become a family joke. She didn’t regret her choice, as she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally miss the theatre, the challenge of the work and the camaraderie of other actors. ‘Anyway, we’re invited to the opening.’

‘Rented tux and all, I suppose.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive the out-of-town run.’ Tugging on her husband’s arm, she said, ‘Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once we get things under control, you can run out to McDonald’s or the Colonel’s for dinner, and when the kids are in bed, I’ll scrub your back, then show you a few things I didn’t learn from the good sisters of St Genevieve’s.’

Kissing her cheek, Phil said, ‘Just as I suspected. Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath you’ll find a dirty old woman.’

‘Complaints?’

‘Never,’ he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they walked towards the old house that was their new home.

• Chapter Two •

Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wending their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more cautious of the two, said, ‘We’d better go up there.’ He pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.

Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greeting. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the ground.

‘Why?’ asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything resembling caution.

‘’Cause we could get caught down there,’ Sean answered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water’s merry gurgle. ‘Besides, Mom said not to go too far.’

‘That’s dumb; she always says stuff like that,’ was Patrick’s answer as he tugged on Bad Luck’s ear and set off to follow the water. His catcher’s mitt hung by a thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesitated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins they might be, but Sean just didn’t seem to have Patrick’s natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and rocks.

Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to the right. ‘Patrick?’ Sean yelled.

‘Over here,’ came the reply. Sean hurried along, rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.

In one of those moments the boys shared, they communicated without words. Silently they voiced agreement, This is a scary place.

Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the presence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge and began again only after having passed beyond its boundaries.

The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.

Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles coming up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as he was about to charge under the bridge. ‘No!’ he shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck stopped, though he whined to be let loose.

‘We better get back,’ said Sean. ‘It’ll be dinner soon.’

‘Yeah, dinner,’ agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying Patrick’s command to come with them, whining with his tail between his legs, then barking.

‘Hey!’ came a shout from behind, and both boys jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. Patrick hung on to Bad Luck’s collar and the Labrador snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Patrick off balance.

Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog’s neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man who had come up behind them.

The man held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. ‘Stop it,’ shouted Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.

Both boys looked the man over. He was young, though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.

The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, they would have been considered pretty. When older, they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger smiled, and said, ‘Sorry to have scared you boys and your dog. It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I should’ve known the dog’d be jumpy.’ He spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the boys were used to hearing.

Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck stopped his growling and reserved judgement on this stranger. The boys exchanged glances.

‘Look, I’m sorry I startled you guys, okay?’

The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, ‘What did you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?’

The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. ‘Bad Luck, huh?’

Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a moment the tail wagging became emphatic. ‘Going to be friends, right, boy?’ said the man. Leaning forward, with hands on knees, he said, ‘Who are you guys? I didn’t know there were any big leaguers around here.’

Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equipment. ‘We just moved here from California. We live on a farm.’

‘Philip Hastings your father?’ Both brothers nodded. ‘I heard he’d be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I didn’t know he was here already. Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jack Cole.’ He held out his hand, not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but as if they were just like anyone else he’d met. The boys said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he was old.

‘What’d you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?’ Patrick repeated.

‘There’s this bull racoon that’s been hanging around this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as not that’s what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, it’s a good thing he didn’t get loose. That ’coon has torn up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area.’

The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. ‘Look, take my word for it. This isn’t some little critter from a cartoon show. This ’coon is almost as big as your hound and he’s old, tough, and mean. And this is his turf, clear?’

The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced back up the gully. ‘This isn’t a good place to play, anyway. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I’d stay clear of this creek in future, okay?’ They nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll walk back to your house with you. Must be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I’d like to meet your dad.’

The boys tugged at Bad Luck’s collar and began to hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean cast a backward look towards the bridge and for an instant felt as if he was being watched by someone … or something … deep within the gloom beneath the rocky arch.

• Chapter Three •

Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted below the eaves of the roof and muttered, ‘Just what every girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame.’ Upon first seeing the house, she had inquired into her husband’s mental health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods used throughout and every joint dovetailed and pegged, with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil couldn’t see that it was also a living exercise in gracelessness, a testimony to Herman Kessler’s father’s knowing what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kessler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped north to this gentleman’s farm, sat off to the left of the house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Regency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a stuffed tiger’s head hung upon the wall of what was going to be Phil’s study, looking balefully down upon the ugliest Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria decided it would be a good year’s work fixing up Old Man Kessler’s place.

She entered the house and moved quickly towards the back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten minutes before they’d put in an appearance. But just as she was about to open the screen door Patrick’s voice cut through the late afternoon air. ‘Maaa!’

She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as she watched her twins approach from the woods behind the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical-looking boots.

When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick yelled, ‘This is Jack, Mom. What’s for dinner?’

Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting on for five. ‘Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your father brings back from town. Hello, Jack.’

‘Hello, Mrs Hastings,’ answered the young man with a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice.

‘How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and Jeckle here?’

‘I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully. Spring floods can come quickly if you don’t know the signs.’ Seeing a tightening around Gloria’s eyes, he quickly added, ‘Nothing to fret about, Mrs Hastings. There’s been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so there’s no chance of a flash flood. But it’s not a good place for the boys to play. Thought I’d mention it to them.’ Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys, who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punctuated by a slamming screen door.

Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her attention to Jack. ‘Thanks, Mr …’

‘Cole, Jack Cole. And it’s no trouble, Ma’am. I hope you don’t mind my being in your woods?’

‘My woods?’ asked Gloria.

‘Your family’s, I mean. Your property line runs back a half-mile beyond the creek bridge.’

‘A half-mile. We own property for a half-mile from the house?’

‘More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter-mile from here, Ma’am.’

‘Gloria.’

For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said, ‘Excuse my discomfort, Ma’am, but I haven’t met a lot of actresses.’

Gloria laughed. ‘God! What are you? A fan, out here in the wilderness, after all these years?’

‘Well, I’ve never seen you onstage, Ma’am, but I’ve read about your husband, and they mentioned your career in passing.’

‘Fame, so fleeting,’ Gloria said with mock sorrow. ‘Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working and you’d like a beer?’

‘With deep appreciation,’ he answered with a smile. ‘I’d been hoping to meet you and your husband.’

‘Then come inside and I’ll scare up a beer for you. Phil should be back with the food shortly.’

Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blonde hair fall freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feeling both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn’t been in front of the cameras since before the twins were born, and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appearance that was almost second nature to young actresses in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told herself she wasn’t going to apologize for her appearance. Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfconscious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular. Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie’s reaction to the young man. He really was cute. Turning towards Jack, she said, ‘We’re still uncrating around here.’

Jack looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry if this is an inopportune time, Ma’am. I can visit another day.’

She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator. ‘No, I just mean pardon the mess.’ She handed him a beer. ‘And it’s “Gloria”, not “Ma’am”.’

Jack’s eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bottle. ‘Royal Holland Brand,’ he said approvingly.

‘Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He buys it by the case.’

Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satisfaction. ‘I can imagine, considering the success of his films. Still, I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t written another book.’

‘You’ve read one of Phil’s books?’ Gloria asked, suddenly interested in the young man.

‘All of them. And all the short stories he’s published. They should be put in an anthology.’

‘You’ve read all three of Phil’s books,’ she said, sitting down.

‘Four,’ Jack corrected. ‘He wrote that romance paperback under the name Abigail Cook.’

‘God! You’ve done your homework.’

Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man’s face. ‘That’s exactly what it is, homework. I’m a graduate student up at Fredonia State –’

Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. ‘Dad’s here!’ yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry.

‘Hold it down to a dull roar, kids,’ commanded Gloria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat.

Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels of the Colonel’s best. Setting them down, he kissed Gloria on the cheek and said, ‘Hello! What is this? Cheating on me already?’

Gloria ignored the remark. ‘Phil, this is Jack Cole, a neighbour. He’s a fan of yours.’

Phil extended his hand and they shook. ‘Not many people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack.’

‘He’s read your books, Phil. All of them.’

Phil looked flattered and said, ‘Well then, Jack, there are fewer people still who’ve read my … Did Gloria say all of them?’

Jack grinned. ‘Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail Cook.’

‘Well, I’ll be go-to-hell. Look, why don’t you join us for supper. We’ve both original and extra crispy, and there’s another bottle of beer where that one came from.’

Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on the verge of some comment when she caught sight of Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and equally obviously both approving of what they saw. Jack’s face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as Gloria said, ‘Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle.’

Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed suddenly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from Jack to Gabbie and said, ‘Right, one more for dinner.’

• Chapter Four •

Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a crate before the television in the parlour. Jack had spoken little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining the family’s move from California.

‘So then,’ said Phil, ‘with Star Pirates and Star Pirates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator’s royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they can grind out, I have what I like to call “go to hell” money.’

‘“Go to hell money”?’ asked Jack.

Gabbie said, ‘Dad means that he’s got enough money to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell.’ Gabbie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack throughout the evening.

‘That’s it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and best: write novels.’

Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. ‘You’ll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humour a lot – made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense – well, sort of.’

‘Thank you, but even so, film’s more of a director’s medium. Even with an editor’s input, a book’s a single person’s product. And it’s been too many years since I’ve been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writing’s done by committee. You’ve never lived until you’ve been through a story conference.’ There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. ‘Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from a multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the board’s wife won’t be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the character’s actions might be bad for the star’s image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare – have Othello divorce Desdemona because his client’s fans wouldn’t accept him as a wife-murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG rather than a G, ‘cause they think teenagers won’t go to a G. It’s a regular Alice Through the Looking Glass out there.’

‘Is it really that bad?’ Jack asked.

Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates and napkins. ‘If the volume of Dad’s yelling is any indication, it’s that bad.’

Phil looked wounded. ‘I don’t yell.’

Gloria said, ‘Yes you do. Several times I thought you’d smash the phone, slamming it down after speaking to someone at the studio.’ She turned to Jack. ‘You’ve been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven’t given you a chance to tell us anything about yourself.’

Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little longer. ‘Not too much to tell, really. I’m just a good old boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a BA in English from UNC and wandered up north to study at SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different grad programmes, including a tempting one in San Diego, but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled some strings and got her, and here I am.’

Phil’s eyes widened. ‘Aggie Grant! She’s an old family friend! She was also my adviser when I got my MA in modern lit. at Cornell. She’s at Fredonia?’

‘Emeritus. She retired last year. That’s what I meant by pulling strings. I’m her last grad student. I’m after a doctorate in literature. In a few more months I’ll be taking orals to see if I get to continue, and an MA in passing. I’m doing my work on novelists who became film writers, on how work in films affects a writer’s work in print. I’m looking at writers who did both, like Fitzgerald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. And of course yourself. Though mostly I’m working on Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my dissertation, I’ll probably concentrate on him.’

Phil smiled. ‘You put me in some fine company, Jack.’

‘It’s all pretty technical and probably pretty boring.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘When the local papers printed the word you’d bought this place, I thought I might impose and get an interview with you.’

Phil said, ‘Well, I’ll help if I can. But I don’t have much in common with Fitzgerald. I don’t drink as much; I’m not having an affair with another writer; and my wife’s not crazy … most of the time.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gloria, drily.

‘I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she’d moved. First chance I have, I’ll get up to Fredonia and see her. God, it’s been years.’

‘Actually, you don’t have to go to Fredonia. She lives on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of Pittsville. That’s part of the deal. I double as something of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of the time. She only runs up to the university when she has to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the occasional alumni function, that sort of thing.’

‘Tell Aggie I’ll be over in the next day or two.’

‘She’s at NYU for the next two weeks. She’s editing a collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she should be back right after. She wouldn’t miss the Fourth of July celebration in Pittsville.’

‘Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a call.’

‘She’ll be glad to know you’re back home. She’ll whip up something special for the occasion, I expect.’ Jack finished his beer and rose. ‘Well, I want to thank you all – for the hospitality and the dinner. It’s truly been a pleasure.’ The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie.

‘I hope we’ll be seeing you soon, Jack,’ said Gloria.

‘If it’s not an imposition. I hike this area when I’m thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I go riding through the woods.’

‘Riding?’ asked Gloria, a calculating expression crossing her face. Jack’s presence had lightened Gabbie’s mood for the first time since they’d arrived, and Gloria was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies.

‘There’s a farm a couple of miles down the highway where they raise horses. Mr Laudermilch’s a friend of Aggie’s, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?’

‘Infrequently,’ answered Phil, ‘but Gabbie here rides every chance she gets.’

‘Oh?’

‘Bumper – that’s my horse – he’s a champion Blanket Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California, and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge Stables.’

‘Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess they’re good working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I guess.’

‘Well, he’s a good one …’ Gabbie shrugged, indicating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled.

Jack said, ‘Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Perhaps you’d care to go riding some afternoon, after you’re settled in?’

‘Sure, anytime.’

‘I’m going down to visit my folks in Durham, day after tomorrow. I’ll be there two weeks. When I get back?’

Gabbie shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Well then. As I said, it’s been a pleasure. I do look forward to the next time.’

Phil rose and shook Jack’s hand. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ offered Gloria as Jack left through the back door. Returning to her husband’s side, she said, ‘So, Gabbie. Things don’t seem quite so bad, do they?’

Gabbie sighed. ‘Oh, he’s definitely a hunk; Ducky Summers would say, “He’s got buns worth dying for”. But how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm horse? Ugh!’

Gloria smiled. ‘Let’s unpack another crate, then I’ll chase the boys to bed.’

Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head, she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen.

• Chapter Five •

Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of a closet when it was discovered the boy’s familiar ones hadn’t been where they were expected to be, and despite the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odour. And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans could be faintly heard; odd clutters and whispers made by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply below the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.

‘Patrick?’ he whispered, to be answered by his brother’s deep breathing. Patrick didn’t share Sean’s fear of the dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother out of the top bunk – they had both wanted the novel experience of sleeping that high off the ground – but Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.

The moon’s glow came through the window, and the light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to recognize.

Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon was not obscured, the tree shadows became more distinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with menace.

Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of danger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming towards the boys’ bunk beds.

‘Patrick,’ Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments he couldn’t see any hint of motion, then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean’s view.

‘Patrick!’ Sean said, scooting backwards to the corner of the bunk furthest from the creeping shadow. Then he heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared beyond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.

Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an instant later Gloria was standing in the doorway turning on the lights.

Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie’s voice came through the door of her room. ‘What’s going on?’

Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. ‘What is it, honey?’

‘Something …’ began Sean. Unable to continue, he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her head in the room and said, ‘What’s going on?’ She wore the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.

With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, Patrick said, ‘Sean’s had a nightmare.’

His brother’s tone of disdain caused Sean to react. ‘It wasn’t a dream! There was something in the room!’

‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘whatever it was, it’s gone.’

‘Honey, it was just a bad dream.’

‘It was not,’ said Sean, halfway between frustrated tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were right.

‘You just go back to sleep and I’ll stay here until you do. Okay?’

Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, ‘’Kay.’ He settled in and began to accept the idea he had been dreaming. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid existence.

‘Broth-er,’ said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and made a display of needing no such reassurance.

Gabbie’s grumbling followed her back into her own room as Phil flipped off the light. Gloria remained, standing patiently next to Sean’s bunk until he fell asleep.

Outside the boys’ bedroom window, something dark and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the gazebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark eyes towards the boys’ window. Another movement, in the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discovery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting between boles, and vanished from view. The dark creature hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then scampered off towards the woods, making odd whispering sounds.

• Chapter Six •

The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient odours had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of the house – the strange little storage area beneath the stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back, the way the pipes upstairs rattled – all these things became familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie wasn’t happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the move had been in Phil’s attitude. He was writing every day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he was simply afraid she wouldn’t like what he was writing and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she thought, all in good time.

Seventeen days after Jack Cole’s visit, a note was delivered by the mailman. It was addressed to ‘Philip Hastings and Family’. Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a letter from his literary agent. ‘… look forward to presenting your newest work. Several publishers already have expressed interest …’ Phil read aloud.

‘Read this,’ Gloria instructed as she handed him the note.

He scanned the envelope and frowned. One of his pet quirks was about Gloria’s opening letters addressed to him, something she loved to do. ‘It said, “and Family”. That’s me,’ she said with mock challenge in her tone.

Phil sighed. ‘Defeated before I begin.’ He read aloud, ‘ “Mrs Agatha Grant invites Mr Philip Hastings and family to dinner, Sunday 24 June. Cocktails at 5 p.m. Regrets only.”’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means RSVP only if you can’t come, you California barbarian.’

Gloria playfully kicked her husband. ‘Barbarian! Who was it who called the town “La Jawl-lah” the first time he propositioned me?’

‘I did?’

‘You most certainly did. It was at Harv Moran’s house, at the wrap party for Bridesdale. You came sliding up to me while my date was over getting drinks – Robbie Tedesco, that was who I was with. You and I had just met at the studio the day before and you said, “I’ve got an invitation to spend the weekend at a friend’s beach house in La Jawl-lah. Do you think you could get away for a couple of days?”’ She spoke the lines with a deep voice, mimicking his speech patterns.

Phil looked only mildly embarrassed. ‘I remember, I still can’t believe I did that. I had never asked a near stranger to spend the weekend with me before.’ Then he smiled. ‘Well, you did come with me.’

Gloria laughed. ‘I did, didn’t I? I guess I just figured someone was going to grab up this eastern square and it might as well be me.’ She playfully grabbed a handful of his greying hair and pulled his head down, kissing him quickly. ‘And La Jolla was beautiful.’

‘So were you … as you still are,’ he said, kissing her deeply. He felt her respond. Playfully nipping at her neck, he whispered, ‘We haven’t pulled a nooner in years, kiddo.’

Then the phone rang, and Gabbie shouted from upstairs, ‘I’ll get it!’

Instantly they heard the sound of the screen door slamming as the boys tromped into the kitchen. ‘Maaa!’ shouted Patrick.

‘What’s for lunch?’ inquired Sean in counterpoint.

Passion fled. Leaning against her husband, Gloria shook her head. ‘Such are the prices of parenthood.’ With a quick kiss, she said, ‘Hold that last thought for tonight, lover.’

Gabbie came running partway down the stairs, holding the phone at the limit of the cord’s ability to stretch. ‘It’s Jack. He’s back. We’re going riding this afternoon, then getting a bite and a movie. So I won’t be home for dinner. Okay?’

Phil said, ‘Sure,’ as the boys came marching in from the kitchen. Gabbie dashed back up the stairs.

‘Mom,’ said Patrick, ‘what’s for lunch?’

‘We’re hungry,’ agreed Sean.

Gloria shrugged regretfully towards her husband. Putting her hands on her sons’ shoulders, she turned them around and said, ‘With me, troops.’ Suddenly she was gone, heading for the kitchen to feed her small brood. Phil could still smell her clean scent in the hall air and felt the deep stirrings that contact with her always brought quickly into existence. With a sigh of regret at the moment’s being gone, he returned to reading the mail as he walked back towards his study.

• Chapter Seven •

Gabbie stood in mute and pleasant surprise. At last she said, ‘All right!’ slowly drawing out the exclamation.

Jack smiled as he motioned for her to come and take the reins of the bay mare he had led. It was a beautiful, well-cared-for animal. Gabby took the reins. ‘They’re terrific.’

‘Mr Laudermilch raises Thoroughbreds and warm-blood crosses. He’s a friend of Aggie’s and I’ve helped out around his farm, so he lets me borrow one every so often. He used to race Thoroughbreds, but now he’s into jumpers.’

Gabbie admired the animals, noting the curve of the neck and the way the tail rose up, and the slightly forward-facing ears. ‘These have some Arabian in them,’ she declared, as she took the reins from Jack.

Jack nodded with a grin. ‘And quarter horse. These don’t compete. They’re what Mr Laudermilch calls “riding-around stock”. Yours is called My Dandelion and this is John Adams.’

She hugged the mare’s neck and patted it. ‘Hi, baby,’ she crooned. ‘We’re going to be buddies, aren’t we?’ She quickly mounted. Settling into the unusual position of the English saddle, she said, ‘God, this feels weird.’

Jack said, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you rode English.’

Gabbie shook her head as she spurred her mount forward. ‘Nope, cowgirl. I’ve ridden English before. It’s just been a long time.’ She waved at her foot. ‘Acme cowboy boots. I’ll pick up some proper breeches and high top boots in town. My knees will be a little bruised tomorrow, is all.’

They rode out towards the woods, Gabbie letting Jack take the lead. ‘Watch out for low branches,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘These paths aren’t cleared like riding trails.’

She nodded and studied his face as he turned back towards the path. She smiled to herself at the way his back moved as he reined his horse. Definitely a fox, she thought to herself, then wondered if there was a girlfriend back at the college.

The trail widened and she moved up beside him, saying ‘These woods are pretty. I’m more used to the hills around the Valley.’

‘Valley?’

‘San Fernando Valley.’ She made a face. ‘Ya know, fer sher, like a Valley girl, totally tubular, man. I mean, like bitchin’, barf out, and all that shit.’ She looked irritated at the notion. ‘I grew up in Arizona. That image grosses me out.’ Suddenly she laughed at the slip and was joined by Jack. ‘LA’s just reclaimed desert. Turn off the garden hose and all the green goes away. It’s all chaparral – scrub, you know – on the hills north of the valley. Some stands of trees around streams. A lot of eucalyptus – nothing like these woods. It’s mostly hot and dry, and real dusty. But I’m used to it.’

He smiled, and she decided she liked the way his mouth turned up. ‘I’ve never been west of the Mississippi, myself. Thought I’d get out to Los Angeles once a few years back, but I broke my leg sailing and that shot the whole summer.’

‘How’d you manage that?’

‘Fell off the boat and hit a patch of hard water.’

For a moment she paused in consideration, for he had answered with a straight face, then she groaned. ‘You bullshitter. You’re as bad as my dad.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ he answered with a grin. ‘Actually, some fool who thought he could sail put the boat around in a gybe without warning any of us, and I caught the boom and got knocked overboard. Smashed my leg all up. I spent the next day and a half with a paddle for a splint while we headed back to Tampa. Spent nine weeks in a cast, then six more in a walking cast. The surgeon was great, but my leg’s not a hundred per cent. When it gets cold, I limp a little. And I can’t run worth spit. So I walk a lot.’

They rode in silence for a while, enjoying the warm spring day in the woods. Suddenly there was an awkward moment, as each waited for the other to speak. At last Jack said, ‘What are you studying?’

Gabbie shrugged. ‘I haven’t decided. I’m only a few units into my sophomore year, really. I’m sort of hung up between psychology and lit.’

‘I don’t know much about psych.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘I mean, what you would do when you graduated. But either means grad school if you want to use them.’

She shrugged again. ‘Like I said, I’m barely a sophomore. I’ve got a while.’ She was quiet for a long time, then blurted, ‘What I’d like to do is write.’

He nodded. ‘Considering your parents, that’s not surprising.’

What was surprising, thought Gabbie, was that she had said that. She had never told anyone, not even Jill Moran, her best friend. ‘That’s the trouble, I guess. Everyone will expect it to be brilliant. What if it’s no good?’

Jack looked at her with a serious expression on his face. ‘Then it’ll be no good.’

She reined in, trying to read his mood. He looked away, thoughtfully, his profile lit from behind by the sun shining through the trees. ‘I tried to write for a long time before I gave up. A historical novel, Durham County. About my neck of the woods at the turn of the century. There were pans of it that I thought were fine.’ He paused. ‘It was pretty awful. It was difficult admitting it at the end, because enough of my friends kept encouraging me that I thought it was good for a long time. I don’t know. You just have to do it, I guess.’

She sighed as she patted the horse’s neck. Her dark hair fell down, hiding her face, as she said, ‘Still, you don’t have two writers for parents. My mother’s won a Pulitzer and my father was nominated for an Oscar. All I’ve managed is some dumb poetry.’

He nodded, then turned his mount and began riding along the trail. After a long silence he said, ‘I still think you just have to do it.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she answered. ‘Look, did you keep any of the stuff your friends told you was great?’

With an embarrassed smile, he said, ‘All of it. The whole damn half novel.’

‘I’ll make you a deal. You let me see yours and I’ll let you see mine.’ Jack laughed hard at the school-yard phrase and shook his head. ‘What’s the matter? ’Fraid?’

‘No,’ Jack barely managed to croak as he continued to laugh uncontrollably.

‘Scaredy-cat,’ Gabbie mimicked, plunging Jack into deeper hilarity.

Jack finally said, ‘Okay, I give up. I’ll let you read my stuff … maybe.’

‘Maybe!’

The argument continued as they crested a small rise and vanished behind it. From deep within the woods a pair of light blue eyes watched their passing. A figure emerged from the underbrush, a lithe, youthful figure who moved lightly on bare feet to the top of the path. From behind a bole he watched Gabbie as she moved down the trail. His eyes caressed her young back, drinking in the sight of her long dark hair, her slender waist, and the rounded buttocks as she held a good seat on the horse’s back. The youth’s laughter was high-pitched and musical. It was an alien sound, childlike and ancient, holding a hint of savage songs, primitive revelries, and music-filled hot nights. His curly red-brown hair surrounded a face conceived by Michelangelo or a Pre-Raphaelite painter. ‘Pretty,’ the young man said to the tree, patting the ancient bark as if it understood. ‘Very pretty.’ Then, nearby, a bird sounded a call, and the youth looked up. His voice shrilled with inhuman tones, a whistling whisper, as if a mockingbird imitated the call. The little bird darted about, seeking the intruder in its territory. The youth shrieked in glee at the harmless jest, as the bird continued to search for the trespasser. Then the youth sighed as he considered the beautiful girl who had passed.

High above, among the leaves, a thing of blackness clung tenaciously to the underside of a branch. It had watched the two riders with as much interest as the youth. But its thoughts were neither merry nor playful. An urgent need arose within, halfway between lust and hunger. Beauty affected it as much as the youth. But its desires were different, for, while lust was the youth’s driving motivation, to the black thing under the tree branch beauty was only a beginning, a point of departure. And only the destruction of beauty allowed one to understand it. The fullness of Gabbie’s beauty could be realized only by a slow journey through pain and anguish, torment and hopelessness, ending with blood and death. And if the pain was artful, as the master had taught, such torment could be made to last for ages.

As it contemplated its alien dark thoughts, musing on the simple wonder of suffering, the black thing realized a truth. Whatever pleasure the girl’s destruction could produce would be nothing compared to the elation that could result from the destruction of the two boys. Such wonderful children, still innocent, still pure. They were the prize. Lingering terror and pain given to such as they would … The creature shuddered in dark anticipation at the image, then stilled itself, lest the one below take notice and make the black thing feel just such pain in turn. The youth stood another moment, one hand upon the tree, the other absently clutching at his groin as he held the image of the lovely human girl who had ridden past. Then, with a move like a spinning dance, the man-boy leaped back into the green vegetation, vanishing from mortal sight, leaving the small clearing empty save for the reverberations of impish laughter.

The black thing waited motionless after the youth vanished into the woods, for despite his youthful appearance, he was one to be feared, one who could cause great harm. When it was satisfied he was gone, and not playing one of his cruel tricks, it sprang with a powerful leap away from the tree. Its movements through the branches were alien, the articulation of its joints nothing of this world, as it hurried on its own errand of dark purpose.

• Chapter Eight •

‘What’s your mother doing?’ asked Jack.

‘I don’t know. Last I heard she was off someplace in Central or South America, writing about another civil war or revolution.’ Gabbie sighed. ‘I don’t hear from her a lot, maybe three letters in the last five years. She and my dad split up when I was less than five. That’s when she got caught up doing the book on the fall of Saigon.’

‘I read it. It was brilliant.’

Gabbie nodded. ‘Mom is a brilliant writer. But as a mother she’s a totally lost cause.’

‘Look, if you’d rather not talk about it …’

‘That’s okay. Most of it’s public record. Mom tried writing a couple of novels before she and my father moved to California. Neither of my folks made much money from writing, but Mom hated Dad’s getting critical notice while she was getting rejection slips. Dad said she never showed much resentment, but it had to be one of the first strains on their marriage. Then Dad got the offer to adapt his second book, All the Fine Promises, and they moved to Hollywood. Dad wrote screenplays and made some solid money, and Mom had me. Then she got politically active in the antiwar movement, like, in ’68, right after the Tet Offensive. She wrote articles and pamphlets and then a publisher asked her to do a book, you know, Why We Resist.

‘It was pretty good, if a little heavy on polemics.’

Gabbie steered her horse round a fallen dead tree surrounded by brush. ‘Well, she might have written bad fiction, but her nonfiction was dynamite. She got her critical notice. And a lot of money. Things were never very good for them, but that’s when trouble really began and it got worse, fast. She’d get so involved in writing about the antiwar movement, then later the end of the war, that she’d leave him hanging all the time. Poor Dad, he’d have some studio dinner to go to or something and she’d not come home, or she’d show up in a flannel shirt and jeans at a formal reception, that sort of stuff. She became pretty radical. I was too young to remember any of it, but from what my grandmother told me, both of them acted pretty badly. But most folks say the breakup was Mom’s fault. She can get real bitchy and she’s stubborn. Even her own mother put most of the blame on her.

‘Anyway, Dad came home one night and found her packing. She’d just got special permission from the Swiss Government to take a Red Cross flight to Vietnam, to cover the fall of Saigon. But she had to leave that night. Things hadn’t been going well and Dad told her not to bother coming back if she left. So she didn’t.’

Jack nodded. ‘I don’t mean to judge, but it seemed a pretty special opportunity for your mother, I mean with Saigon about to fall, and all.’ He left unsaid the implication that her father had been unreasonable in his demand that his wife remain at home.

‘Ya. But I was in the hospital with meningitis at the time. I almost died, they tell me.’ Gabbie looked thoughtful for a while. ‘I can hardly remember what she looks like, except for pictures of her, and that’s not the same. Anyway, she became the radicals’ darling, and by the time the war was over she’d become a pretty well-respected political writer. Now she’s the grande dame of the Left, the spokesperson for populist causes all over the world. The only journalist allowed to interview Colonel Zamora when the rebels held him captive, and all that junk. You know all the rest.’

‘Must have been rough.’

‘I guess. I never knew it any different. Dad had to put in pretty rugged hours at the studio and travel on location and the rest, so he left me with my grandmother. Anyway, she raised me until I was about twelve, then I went to private school in Arizona. My father wanted me to come live with him when he married Gloria, but my grandmother wouldn’t allow it. I don’t know, but I think he tried to get me back and she threatened him.’ She fixed Jack with a narrow gaze. ‘The Larkers are an old family with old money, I mean, serious old money. Like Learjets and international corporations. And lawyers, maybe dozens all on retainer, and political clout, lots of it. I think Grandma Larker owned a couple of judges in Phoenix. Anyway, she could blow away any court action Dad could bring, even if he had some money by most people’s standards. So I stayed with her. Grandma was a little to the right of Attila the Hun, you know? Nig-grows, bleeding hearts, and “Communist outside agitators”? She thought Reagan was a liberal, Goldwater soft on communism, and the Birchers a terrific bunch of guys and gals. So even if she considered Mom a Commie flake, Grandma didn’t want me living with “that writer”, as she called Dad. She blamed Dad for Mom becoming a Commie flake, I guess. Anyway, Grandma Larker died two years ago, and I went to live with Dad. I lived with the family my last year in high school and my first year at UCLA. That’s it.’

Jack nodded, and Gabbie was surprised at what appeared to be genuine concern in his expression. She felt troubled by that, somehow, as if she was under inspection. She felt suddenly self-conscious at what she was certain was babbling. Urging her horse forward, she said, ‘What about you?’

Jack caught up with the walking horse and said, ‘Not much. Old North Carolina family. A many-greats-grandfather who chose raising horses instead of tobacco. Unfortunately, he bred slow racehorses, so all his neighbours got rich while he barely avoided bankruptcy. My family never had a lot of money, but we’ve got loads of genteel history’ – he laughed – ‘and slow horses. We’re big on tradition. No brothers or sisters. My father does research – physics – and teaches at UNC, which is why I went there as an undergraduate. My mother’s an old-fashioned housewife. My upbringing was pretty normal, I’m afraid.’

Gabbie sighed. ‘That sounds wonderful.’ Then, with a lightening tone, she said, ‘Come on, let’s put on some speed.’ She made to kick My Dandelion.

Before she could, Jack shouted, ‘No!’

The tone of his voice caused Gabbie to jump, and she swung around to face him, colour rising in her cheeks. She felt caught between embarrassment and anger. She didn’t like his tone.

‘Sorry to yell,’ he said, ‘but there’s a nasty bit of a turn in the trail ahead and a deadfall, then you hit the bridge, and that’s tricky. Like I said, this isn’t a riding trail,’

‘Sorry.’ Gabbie turned forward, lapsing into silence. Something awkward had come between them and neither seemed sure of how to repair the damage.

Finally Jack said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry.’

Petulantly Gabbie responded, ‘I said I was sorry.’

With a fierce expression, Jack raised his voice slightly. ‘Well, I’m sorrier than you are.’

Gabbie made a face and shouted, ‘Ya! Well, I’m sorrier than you’ll ever be!’

They both continued the mock argument for a moment, then rode past the deadfall and discovered the bridge. Gabbie’s horse shied and attempted to turn around. ‘Hey!’ She put her leg to My Dandelion as the mare attempted to jig sideways. As the horse began to toss her head, Gabbie took firm rein and said, ‘Stop that!’ The horse obeyed. Looking at Jack, Gabbie said ‘What?’

‘That’s the Troll Bridge.’

She groaned at the pun. ‘That’s retarded.’

‘Well, that’s what the kids call it. I don’t think there’s a troll waiting under it for billy goats, but for some reason the horses don’t like to cross.’ To demonstrate the point, he had to use a firm rein and some vigorous kicks to get John Adams across the bridge. Gabbie followed suit and found My Dandelion reluctant to step upon the ancient stones until Gabbie put her heels hard into her horse’s sides. But as soon as the mare was halfway across, she nearly bolted forward, as if anxious to be off.

‘That’s pretty weird.’

Jack nodded. ‘I don’t know. Horses can be pretty funny. Maybe they smell something. Anyway, these woods are supposed to be haunted –’

‘Haunted!’ interrupted Gabbie, with a note of derision.

‘I didn’t say I believed, but some pretty strange things have gone on around here.’

She rode on, saying, ‘Like what?’

‘Lights in the woods, you know? Like fox fire, but there’s no marsh nearby. Maybe St Elmo’s fire. Anyway, some folks say they’ve heard music deep in the woods, and there’s a story about some kids disappearing.’

‘Kidnapping?’

‘No one knows. It happened almost a hundred years ago. Seems some folks went out for a Fourth of July picnic one time, and a couple of kids got lost in the woods.

‘Sounds like a movie I once saw.’

Jack grinned. ‘Yes, it was the same sort of thing. These woods can get you pretty turned around, and it was a heck of a lot rougher back then. No highway a mile to the west, just wagon roads. Pittsville was about a tenth the size it is today. No developments, or malls, only a few spread-out farms and a lot of woods. Anyway, they searched a long time and came up with nothing. No bodies, nothing. Some think the Indians killed them.’

‘Indians?’

‘There was a reservation nearby. A small bank of Cattaraugus, Alleganies, or some such. They shut it down a long time ago. But anyway, a bunch of farmers marched over there and were ready to start shooting. The Indians said it was spirits got the kids. And the funny thing was the farmers just turned round and went home. There’s been a lot of other stuff like that over the years. These woods have a fair reputation for odd goings-on.’

‘For a southern boy you know a lot about these woods.’

‘Aggie,’ he said with an affectionate smile. ‘She’s something of an expert. It’s sort of a hobby with her. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. You’re going next Sunday, aren’t you?’

She smiled at his barely hidden interest. ‘I guess.’

They cleared a thick stand of trees, then suddenly found themselves facing a large bald hillock. It rose to a height of twenty-five feet, dominating the clearing. Not a single plant save grasses grew on it, no tree or bush.

‘A faerie mound!’ said Gabbie with obvious delight.

‘Erlkönighügel.’

‘What?’

‘Erlkönighügel. Erl King Hill, literally. Hill of the Elf King, in German; it’s what Old Man Kessler’s father called it. Erl King Hill is what the farm is officially called in the title deeds, though everyone hereabouts calls it the Old Kessler Place.’

‘Far out. Is there a story?’

Moving his horse in a lazy circle about the hill, Jack said, ‘Usually is about such things. But I don’t know any. Just that the locals have called this place the Fairy Woods since Pittsville was founded in 1820. I guess that’s where Old Man Kessler’s father got the notion when he showed up eighty-odd years ago. They’ve got faerie myths in Germany. Anyway, “Der Erlkönig” is a poem by Goethe. It’s pretty scary stuff.’

They left the hill behind and moved down a slight grade towards a path leading back to the farm. As they left, Gabbie cast a rearward glance at the hillock. For some reason she was left with the feeling the place was waiting. Brushing aside the strange notion, she turned her thoughts to how she was going to get Jack to call her again.

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